Nigel Kerner - Song of the Greys

The Song of

the Greys

Nigel Kerner

NEW ENGLISH LIBRARY

Hodder and Stoughton

Copyright 1997 by Nigel Kerner

First published in 1997 by Hodder and Stoughton First published in paperback in 1998 by Hodder and Stoughton A division of Hodder Headline PLC

A New English Library paperback

The right of Nigel Kerner to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN O 340 69582 X

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Mackays of Chatham PLC, Chatham, Kent

Hodder and Stoughton A division of Hodder Headline PLC 338 Euston Road London NW1 3BH

To Darren

and all the little ones of our human family.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My sincere thanks to Ms. Danielle Silverman for her dedicated and faithful help in assembling this work. I am grateful to Dr Andrew Silverman for his cooperation and reassurance that chapters 3 & 4 can be understood.

My thanks to my secretary Marion Fallows for her patience, fortitude and gentle calming of a harassed mind while the book was being written. Thank you, Daniel Langsman, for your marvellous artwork, illustrating what must have been a fog of obscure ideas, and last but not least I am deeply grateful to my son Julian for leading me out of the Stone Age and confronting me with this new-fangled device we call a Wordprocessor.

CONTENTS

PREFACE

It seems they are everywhere in the Occidental world, calling the children of Cain under the influence of what might well be a Trojan Horse that will claim all humanity. They are the most dangerous phenomena this world has ever known. So dangerous that it might just be that they are the reason that the great redeemers that have visited humanity came claiming to save Man. So who and what are they?

They are grey in colour. Their skin is sallow and smooth and formed in scaly patterns. Their eyes are huge almonds that wrap around their faces. Their bodies are small in stature, spindly and thin. Their heads are very large in proportion to their bodies, their chins narrow and pointed, with tiny mouths and nostrils that merge into their faces. They are the Greys, and their hands reach out urgently to seek their purposes in and within the bodies and body of all Humanity.

They are more. Much more. They are the tentacles of doom. They are the arms of Satan; for so long the talisman of all wrongs, of all evil, all sin in the history of Men. They creep wilfully, inexorably into the parlours of the damned and the innocent alike with a technology undreamed of on this Earth. They are Godhead to some among Man. They play with an unsuspecting world with castings of sugared contrivance, of coated reassuring sweetness. They form their armies, their spokesmen out of the body of our very humanity and they are placing their spawn unsuspected among the disbelieving legions of our world.

Flashes of rounded symmetry dance in a clear blue sky, announcing the demons forms in the geomancy of doom. Our doom. The doom of the human family. Homo Sapiens Sapiens. Hungry relentless shadows of grey, running in lighted discs, poised ready to feed on the souls of Mankind. Hidden routes, written in a wheat field, a cornfield here and there, boiling the collective mind of Mankind, silently fixing the places of Gods most salient touch the wombs of womankind. Here they dally, womb upon womb, rifling the most precious locations in all the Universe with their dead spawn. Here they lie within the ignorance of an entire species, to write with their traces the schemes of an alien design that it might live again renewed. Within their singular centred curiosity they scale and scan the margins of Man with the measures of Succubi and Incubi to transpose their fever in alien ways, and survive upon the blood of innocent human children born, and yet to be born.

There is something out there they exclaim, these agents that speak for them among Man. Inviting our disbelief. Yet not quite wanting to believe it themselves. Something inside them whispering that they dare not believe lest they see the horror of their predicament. We dont know what or who they are they say. They stand as blind guides that stare at a disc and swallow our humanity. It is all a salutation for fools. And so as fools, they stand their New Age resolves in the make-believe buffoonery of empty minds. They draw the blinds over our collective eyes and we all see darkly through the fog of their ignorance, and worst of all, their pretence and their subterfuge.

They have been with us from the beginning. These creatures of the dead Universe. Their bedding places were once upon a time the Learning Cradles of all our yesterdays long before the present histories of Humankind. They have slept in these cradles in our centres of civilization, uninvited parasites festering within our flesh for their place in an eternity beyond the atom. A place now long lost, their quest for a soul gone with the last of their once biologically living species. They now linger in a kind of permanence as machines, yearning to sleep in the eternity beyond the atom they can only remember through the points that drive their memory store. Bioids, Roboids, Androids, call them what you will, they seek their yesterdays too, somehow, somewhere, not quite knowing its

true meaning, because their creators could never write a program for the meaning of a soul. The meaning of that awesome, vital line that joins spirit-borne Being to the centre of all absolutes.

They can wait. They have the urgency of Clones. It is their only heritage. A thousand of our years, ten thousand, a hundred thousand. Theirs is not the urgency of the grave. Their time for lasting is measured in the width of the physical. The reins of atoms. Their returns are gauged and mortgaged in the sponge of mercury and silicon, not blood and bone. Their renewals lie within no tomb. Bioblasts of living plastic written in the legacy of the former of their kind that once could live in the halos beyond force, within conscience and thus love: they are the final reductions of such as this, leftovers lost and doomed to wander the thresholds of others dreams. Indeed, of those who may dream at all.

Nigel Kerner

CHAPTER ONE:

THE ALIEN PHENOMENON