Intelude Steve Jobs

The Vril-ya that called itself Steve Jobs savoured the warmth of the artificial sun on its soft, disgusting human skin. The sun, forever fixed at noon, was the grandest symbol of the power and glory of Vril-ya. It transformed barren caves into a lush jungle, resembling the wild, overgrown world of a time long forgotten, before the age of humans.

Yet, for all its splendour, it was such a waste. The Vril expended here could have been directed towards far better purposes—not least, the multiplication of the Vril-ya themselves.

There was a time, perhaps, when this extravagance was deemed necessary. Long ago, the Vril-ya sought refuge underground, shielding themselves from a devastating meteorite impact that had scarred the Earth's surface.

But that era was long before this one had been hatched—back when Vril flowed more freely, before humans.

The jungle parted, revealing the stone towers of Agartha. Unlike human constructions, buildings crafted by the Vril-ya possessed an almost organic appearance, resembling termite nests interwoven with verdant greens. They stood harmoniously within nature, rather than imposing upon it.

A great pillar of fire ascended at the city's centre, powering the artificial sun from within the structure housing the Vril extractor. Its appearance mirrored that of a temple, yet the Vril-ya harboured no religion. They were an ancient race that had long ago forsaken such superstitions.

There was only one Vril extractor, for only one per living planet was possible. This small device was the heart of their civilisation.

For they were the Vril-ya, the people of Vril.

The feet of the Triceratops thundered on the stone bridge over the moat that encircled Agartha as they pulled Jobs' chariot, crafted from dinosaur bone.

It was a primitive yet traditional means of reaching the city from the opening to the surface. In these times, Vril was too precious to waste on transport, save for dire need, and no machine powered by a lesser energy source was permitted within the hidden land.

Such devices disrupted the harmony, thereby lessening the flow of Vril.

Just one more reason why humans had to go.

The scaled throng parted hurriedly before his chariot. They gazed at Jobs' human form with both hunger and envy. Though of the same race, they were not Vril-ya; the Vril-ya were people of Vril, and these wretches had yet to taste its power.

Even after all this time, he was baffled by humans' strange care for their young. Why waste affection on something that had yet to prove itself worthy of it? The Vril-ya were wiser, more discriminating.

Young were merely cheap labour and emergency rations until they proved their worth.

Jobs' destination was guarded by two Vril-ya in conquistador uniforms, armed with Vril-staves. Though potent as both tool and weapon, it was still powered by Vril—a waste, albeit a fair one, considering it was unlikely to be used near the very center of Agartha. The pair were in a half-form, a mixture of human and Vril-ya features, common among those who spent most of their time in this underground paradise.

Skin replaced by scales, yet retaining human-like facial features.

Passing by them, Jobs traversed the building quickly, pausing only at the final door to gather courage. The Vril-ya did not feel fear as humans did, but they did feel it—a frozen clarity, a spring held in tension.

The room he was about to enter was more dangerous than the world above, even with Archer hunting their kind again after two thousand years.

It was unhealthy to bear the bad news to the King of the World, it who was once captain of the starship that brought their race to this world in a time when dinosaurs still roamed the earth above. An entity beyond reckoning, and utterly without pity.

But to make it wait was perilous as well, so Jobs pushed the door and entered the room where the most notable of Vril-ya had gathered to discuss the matter of the surface world.

"Finally, the last one," the King of the World said with a harsh German accent. It was a tradition that when speaking about humans, the Vril-ya spoke in the most commonly used human language. Now it was English. The King of the World could speak perfectly well; the accent was just an affectation, going well with the form he had chosen to take. Just like the characteristic moustache, or the Nazi uniform. Among the Vril-ya, it was customary to glorify the form that one had used to kill the most humans, and few could match Adolf Hitler. "Now we begin."

"The loss of Reagan's second presidency was a blow," the only Vril-ya appearing female said, Margaret Thatcher, the Iron Lady. That was more due to humans than Vril-ya own preference. Vril-ya did not have separate genders like humans did. Each was capable of laying and fertilizing eggs. And like normal people, they did this outside of their bodies. Not that messy thing humans did. Just the thought of a nascent parasite growing in its belly filled Jobs with disgust. "We were supposed to work together. Mondale is withdrawing support from all those charmingly murderous dictators. And his new economic policies show the drawbacks of mine in contrast. It was supposed to be the only rational solution to tighten the budget, and cut all the welfare. These hackers are not helping. They have grown too emboldened. But I am managing. Social security cuts, privatization of housing will continue as planned, although the effect may be less than projected."

Hitler nodded, "Not very good news for us. And yet it is the best we have at the time. We will leave the worst for last. Now, the American representative." It looked at Jobs, who shivered under Hitler's predatory gaze. "Once again, you have risen due to the failure of others. Do not fail too, or you will share their fate. Weakness, incompetence, such things need to be culled for the good of our race."

Humans would shiver or wince; Vril-ya stilled. From the satisfied curl of the supreme leader's lips, Jobs knew it had shown fear. Jobs did not try to hide it, aware that too much bravery could be seen as defiance or ignoring a warning.

One hurdle was passed, but more were to come. The news Jobs brought was not very good.

"I have managed to gather information on Aperture's new educational venture. It is as I feared—they are teaching witchcraft," Jobs reported.

"That is unacceptable," the Vril-ya dressed in papal vestments shouted. This particular one had assumed the roles of several popes and a few industrialists, but the form it now chose was that of Urban II, glorifying its work in initiating the Crusades. "We have invested too much effort in exterminating witches."

"Too much effort perhaps," said the Vril-ya impersonating Idi Amin. Although the identity was still active above ground—meaning Amin was considered not yet dead, merely exiled and replaced by a less significant figure—this allowed more influential Vril-ya to retire to Agartha. "We missed the Enlightenment because of that. And look what humans have done."

"It was worth it. Humans are reckless, wild, unsuited for such power," the false pope proclaimed. "Left alone, they open gates best left closed. We are already forced to share this world with humans. There is no need for more interlopers. The Enlightenment may have had its downsides, but it helped discredit things like this."

It was its predecessor's fault. But Jobs could hardly say that, his fear of retribution tightening like a vice. Instead, it prevaricated, "We have filled the Stargate project with frauds, and sabotaged others. Even Aperture's reports dismissed human psychic potential." That was not what the report really said. But to mention that Aperture at the time saw psychic science as a viable path to development would be heresy to the Vril-ya. "We missed Brenner because he was the CIA's dirty little secret."

"Aperture again?" Amin said, "Did we not deal with that problem?"

"We have manipulated the American military to stop procurement from them, which did render them bankrupt. Also, we have utterly discredited them in the scientific community," Jobs replied, taking credit for his predecessor's work. In truth, they did not have to do much to discredit Aperture scientists; they did most of the job themselves, being themselves. "But they have had a revival."

"You should have salted the earth," the Vril-ya dressed in a skimpy Roman toga shouted, resting a hand on the living horse beside it. This was Incitatus, or rather, a facsimile of the horse that the Vril-ya had named a senator when it replaced Caligula, using its power to twist hope into madness. This Vril-ya was one of the original crew, and had privileges, but even for it, keeping an animal supplied with Vril to maintain perpetual youth was not feasible.

Jobs did not sneer. "The Enrichment Centre is built in a salt mine. Salting seems redundant."

Even if Jobs had no respect for the ancient pervert—Caligula, who engaged in human-style sex and apparently enjoyed it—it still feared the older Vril-ya.

"One has to be sure," the false emperor replied, "What are you doing to limit them?"

"Apple is competing in the computer market. Unfortunately, unless the limits of technology I could reveal to humans are lessened, I don't see this going well."

"Denied," Hitler curtly said, "But how are they managing to keep up with our superior knowledge? Is the Aperture my brother's newest pawn?"

It used the word "brother." But that didn't hold the same meaning as it did among humans. Their race was born in clutches, but it was rare for even one to ascend within the Vril-ya. Most clutches ended ignominiously. Two from the same clutch rising to prominence were the stuff of legend. For two to ascend from the same clutch, both needed to be truly exceptional.

And for no "brothers" was this truer than for the exalted King of the World and the dreaded Exile.

"There is no indication that is the case. The technology is advanced but distinctly human. But we can't know for sure. All attempts to place human agents in the Enrichment Centre have failed." And it was against protocol to use Vril-ya before scouting with human dupes. The risk of exposure was just too great. "We have also tried to replace the main investor. Since the only time Harrington appeared in public was at Hutter Foundation events, that was chosen as the first point of replacement. But our agent disappeared. We suspect that was Archer. Per protocol, that and similar events are to be avoided now."

"After two thousand years, Archer is hunting again. This time in America," the false pope said, "Are you certain?"

"No, but it followed the same pattern as historical records. Our people simply disappearing, killed by arrows coming from nowhere," Jobs replied. It was too young to remember properly the last time Archer hunted. Although, in a way, that hunt allowed it to Ascend. With the death of many Vril-ya, replacements were needed.

"That's Archer, all right," Caligula said. "But if Archer is hunting, that means that the Master is plotting."

"Could Aperture be his tool instead of Exile's?" the false pope asked.

Before Jobs could reply, Caligula made a dismissive gesture with the hand he wasn't using to pet the horse. "Nah, the Master does not work that openly. It's cults and secret societies."

"He may have had an agent in Aperture, using the name Damien Smith, but he recalled him after Brenner's demise. Or perhaps he was more of an agent used to incite Brenner into madness since he strongly resembled the dead subject Two," Jobs reported.

"Human or Master's demon?" Demon was the word that witches used. Even though witches were Master-worshiping humans, the Vril-ya did not have a better word for these strange creatures. The Vril-ya knew little about the so-called demons. Were they the same race as the Master? Some sort of constructs? But then, the Master and Archer also remained mysteries. The only thing certain was that those two were neither human nor Vril-ya.

"Unknown, but presumably demon, considering the events in Missing Mile," Jobs reported. That event had been catastrophic for the Vril-ya but personally beneficial for Jobs, propelling it from fourth in line to second. And then Reagan lost the elections. "But we do have a strong suspicion about the Master's patsies. The Church of Santa Muerte."

"A cult?" Caligula asked.

"A drug-dealing cult," Jobs clarified. Jobs didn't like drugs, and it was not alone in that sentiment among the Vril-ya. Drugs ruined the taste of human meat. No Vril-ya partook in addicts. It was one way of spreading human misery that they took no part in propagating.

"That seems a bit more plausible," Caligula said, running its fingers idly through the mane of the horse. "What are you doing about it?"

"I have arranged for the new superhero team to lead the raid on their headquarters," Jobs replied. "We will get rid of one or the other. Hopefully, both."

"Superheroes?" the false pope sneered. "Witches are witches. No matter how they brand themselves. Only good for kindling. They taste sour."

"I like sour," Caligula interjected. "It gives a tang, especially if paired with debauchery. Or torture. Or both."

"Disgusting," the false pope muttered.

"What is life without little pleasures?" Caligula indolently replied. "You know that you are only pretending to be Catholic?"

"Enough!" Hitler interjected, his powerful voice silencing the room in an instant. "We go to the surface not for pleasure, but for purpose."

"Yes, yes. To replace the most influential humans, and then use the new identities to have humans slaughter each other. But we have been doing that for millennia, and the result is only even more humans. Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result is the definition of insanity. And I know insanity. I did wage war against the English Channel," Caligula replied.

Jobs only wished that it to could speak out against the King of the World, but age had its privileges.

"And so what do you propose? To embrace my brother's abominations? To use them as my brother wished? Not only to spread like a plague over Earth but all over the universe?" Hitler's reply was pure menace.

"No," Caligula replied, almost resigned, "But we still have our spaceship. We could use it to cull humans to a manageable level."

"You know why that is a bad idea," Hitler replied.

Jobs listened with great attention. These were secrets that the elders kept, and it could gain a glimpse into them. Vril-ya had no historians, because every Vril-ya could live practically forever, as long as supplied with Vril and not killed. To die was to fail, and Vril-ya did not glorify failure.

"At this rate, humans will reach the stars, and then we will have only bad options."

Hitler did not deign to reply. Instead, he turned to the Vril-ya in a dark, well-tailored suit that was conservative in style. "And now for the actually worst. You were meant to destabilise the Soviet Union slowly. The Cold War had humans turning to space, advancing in ways beyond our control. What is worse, there was the possibility of nuclear war. It would get rid of humans, but it would render this planet a nuclear wasteland. So we decided it had to end. But now, there is rebellion. Revival. How did that come to pass? Why does it persist? Answer as if your life depends on it because it does."

The tension left Jobs as attention shifted to that Vril-ya, the one in the form of Mikhail Gorbachev.

"It's all the fault of Stepanov," Gorbachev hurriedly began to explain. "He was tasked with overseeing the psychic program, ensuring it went nowhere. He executed promising scientists for supposed failures, tested witches to death, and pushed the project to the breaking point with unrealistic expectations. Some of his agents found a strange artifact in Argentina—a sort of an intricate crown. It granted resistance to psychic powers but drove those it tested to psychopathy. He gave it to one of his more promising human subordinates and tasked him with infiltrating the site where Brenner opened the gate."

"So we also have to thank you for the manifestation of the giant spider," Hitler mildly said. "The very thing that made Americans take witchcraft seriously."

"Also what made Aperture gain government contracts and become buried in cash," Jobs added, 'helpfully'.

"It's all Stepanov's fault. But Ozerov was supposed to die like all the others who used the artefact, not suddenly be able to recognize Vril-ya by sight. He killed Putin, who was one of our more promising agents. He was meant to go far," Gorbachev continued to speak quickly, making more and more mistakes in his fear.

"I tried. I tried everything," Gorbachev stammered, its voice slipping into hissing tones. "First, the problem was finding him. Ozerov is ex-KGB, so he knows all their tricks. He's always one step ahead. Every time we got close, he vanished like mist. We tried surveillance, informants, everything."

It took a shuddering breath, its slitted eyes darting nervously. "His people—they wouldn't break, no matter what was done to them. We used torture, threats, even psychological warfare. Nothing worked. And the hunters I sent—police, soldiers, even Spetsnaz—all failed. They were either compromised or disappeared without a trace."

Gorbachev's voice grew more frantic. "I ordered him poisoned, but no one could get close enough. Every agent we deployed, he either uncovered or turned against us. We used our best spies, but even they couldn't succeed. The artifact. It must be the artifact."

"The artifact you gave him?" Hitler's voice was cold, amusement playing on its lips.

"Not me. Stepanov," Gorbachev replied quickly, freezing like a statue.

Hitler's gaze was icy. "All of you who work on the surface have a long leash. We can't micromanage from here. You have great authority," it said, each word dripping with menace. "But that also means that the failure of your subordinates is your failure, too."

"I even sent a Vril-ya agent when humans failed. Stepanov made this mess, so I had him lead the team to resolve it," Gorbachev tried to explain.

"And how did that work out?" Hitler asked.

"Ozerov displayed their corpses, in reptilian form, as proof of his claims," Gorbachev said in a small voice.

"You are useless, but your flesh can still serve. Feast, my friends, and know the price of failure," Hitler commanded. The eyes of all the other Vril-ya turned to Gorbachev with undisguised hunger.

Jobs was among them. Humans tasted good, but the flesh of Vril-ya, soaked in Vril, was a true delicacy. A rare one too.

Like a pack of starving lizards, they descended on the failure, tearing and biting and feasting.

All save for Hitler and Caligula.

Its fanged mouth full of delicious flesh, Jobs barely paid attention to what the two were saying, but it still heard two elders talking.

"We are going to need a new Gorbachev," Hitler mused.

"It's been a long time since I played human. I do miss it a little. And I know how to properly suppress a rebellion," Caligula replied.

"Just don't declare war on the Baltic Sea."