The Axalon Prophecy

The end of the world will not be heralded by the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, but with the arrival of giant transforming robots.

Cambridge, United Kingdom. 1998.

“Quite a turn out, huh?”

“I guess there’re more UFO nuts in the UK than we realised.”

“Just so long as he’s here.”

“Yeah. Fourth row… seventh seat from the end.”

“Hmmm. So, not really at one side or another?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, the guy’s 24 years old and not yet had a girlfriend. Do you think he’s—"

“I really don’t think that matters right now.”

“Hey, I just want our files to be as comprehensive as possible!”

Don Lavelle snatched the folder from Don Wroblewski’s hands and opened it at a random page. He slid his index finger down the page and mocked: “Ah yes. David: He hasn’t wet the bed since the 19th of June, 1975.”

Wroblewski shook his head, smiling. “It’s nine o’clock. Let’s get this show on the road.”

The two men, dressed in smart black suits, marched onto the auditorium stage. A white screen lowered behind them and the words ‘THE AXALON’ were projected upon it.

The words were completely alien to the audience of three thousand, but the two men only wanted one member to understand them. Fourth row, seventh seat from the end.

Don Lavelle regarded the audience in one sweeping glance and took a deep breath. He started his presentation: “The end of the world will not be heralded by the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, but with the arrival of giant transforming robots.”

Next to him, Don Wroblewski operated a laptop computer and the screen changed to show a large spacecraft half buried in a desert environment.

“You’ve heard of Roswell, New Mexico and you’ve heard of Area 51,” continued Lavelle. “The Mulders and Scullys of this world have done their best to let the world know about that project.

“My name is Lavelle and this is my colleague, Wroblewski and we work for Area 49. We’re here to tell you about what we’ve found.”

As if one organism, the entire audience craned forward with interest. They were expecting to hear more testimony on Area 51 and “grey” aliens; maybe even another autopsy video. But not anything like this.

“The craft behind me is called the Axalon. It was found on the same mission to retrieve the ‘Roswell Saucer.’ Completely by chance, actually. One of the team had wondered off to take a whiz or something.”

The joke was lost on the audience.

“The men who found the Axalon are all dead now. You know how conspiracies are. I am an ontologist by trade and I have spent my adult years trying to locate the ship.

“Parts of it were recovered from the dig in New Mexico and shipped to a military facility in North Dakota. The only success I have had so far was back in 1979 when I managed to hack into some files that belonged to the ship’s computer.”

Lavelle gestured to Wroblewski and a picture of a golden disc appeared on the screen.

“My colleague is an expert cryptographer and we have been working for many years to decipher the alien language.”

Wroblewski swapped places with Lavelle. It was his turn to talk: “Going by what we’ve deciphered so far, the spacecraft is called ‘The Axalon’ and is from a planet called Cybertron. It would seem that this planet is inhabited entirely by mechanical life.”

At least 600 members of the audience rolled their eyes in disbelief at this. If truth be known, despite the ridicule they received about being “believers” none truly believed the “grey” alien theory. But at least it seemed more plausible than alien robots.

“The planet Cybertron is populated by sentient robots capable of changing form and transforming into vehicles, beasts and hardware.”

Yeah, much more plausible than alien robots.

“We have no idea when the Axalon crashed here, but there are references in the computer files about a golden disc. The same golden disc launched aboard our own Voyager spacecraft.”

The audience started to fidget. Wroblewski was losing credibility fast.

“I know it all sounds very ‘Planet of the Apes’ but it would seem the Axalon actually came from the future and travelled to Earth’s past.

“There are many references to a future Earth in these computer files. Our future.”

At this point many members of the audience started to leave. Wroblewski tried to continue but was practically drowned out by the noise of shuffling feet and mutters of incredulity.

Lavelle rose to speak again: “There are references to a horrific disaster on a global scale. A disaster started by the same race of robots that came here aboard the Axalon.”

It was no use. The auditorium was emptying fast. Lavelle was shouting now: “The date is set. According to these computer records, in three years time these robots will return and destroy our world!

“We are here today to recruit the help we need to find the Axalon and hopefully find a way to defeat the robots and save our planet!

“It’s going to happen in 2002. We don’t have much—“

Wroblewski held Lavelle’s forearm and calmed him down. “We lost them again. It’s no use.”

The two men surveyed the hundreds of empty seats.

“Well, not completely,” said Lavelle, smiling.

A single figure rose from his seat and walked down the aisle towards the stage.

Wroblewski smiled back: “Fourth row, seventh seat from the end.”