The Guardian Object

One night in July, 2051, Lima, Peru, lay beneath a mist. The streets were empty, the air heavy with the scent of damp earth. In a quiet neighborhood, Dr. Carlos Biltong sat alone in his study, his hands trembling slightly as he perused old Nazca texts. The words written centuries ago spoke of the Eternals, and the powerful object they guarded—an object known as the Guardian object.

The clock struck midnight when he felt the temperature in the room drop sharply, making his breath visible. Carlos stood, his pulse quickening. He had believed that low temperatures were beneficial all his life, but nothing had prepared him for the air rippling, and then three figures cloaked in shimmering light who appeared. They were towering beings whose presence bent the very fabric of the room.

Carlos knew, without a doubt, that these were the Eternals. One of them stepped forward, holding something small and radiant in his hand. It was the top part of the pyramid, barely two and a half centimeters at its base, the Guardian object. Carlos’s heart raced. According to the ancient Nazca records, this was what carried a promise kept secret: "Whoever wears this shall not suffer misfortune."

Without words, the Eternal extended the object to him. Carlos hesitated only a moment before accepting it, the Prometheum pyramid being cold to the touch. As his fingers closed around the Guardian object, a flood of images surged through his mind—glimpses of the past, the present, and the countless futures he would now be connected to. He saw wars, famines, great achievements, and deep losses. And at back of it all, the Pyramid.

The figure nodded, and though no words were spoken, Carlos understood the weight of the commitment. To wear the Guardian object was to be bound to the Eternals, to their timeless order and the promise they upheld. He placed the small pyramid beneath his shirt, close to his heart. Instantly, the world shifted around him. The cold air vanished, replaced by warmth, and his heaviness began to lift. The promise of the object was real. He felt a deep, unshakable certainty that no harm would come to him while he wore it.

But the Eternals demanded respect—for both the object and for their condition- no spacefaring. To misuse it, to wear it disrespectfully, was to court disaster. Carlos understood this as clearly as if the words had been spoken aloud. He sank back into his chair, his hand resting on the pyramid beneath his shirt. The Guardian object pulsed faintly against his skin, a constant reminder of the promise it carried. He sat for a long time, staring into the empty room.

In the years that followed, his words were held onto like his namesake Carlos Castaneda, and the Guardian object became his connection to the beings who watched over humanity.

Yet, Carlos never forgot the warning. The Guardian object, powerful though it was, required no disrespect, as any soiling of its nature would invite the Eternals’ wrath. On that fateful night, he made a promise that would shape the future with the assurance of good fortune.

Carlos stood before his vast, floor-to-ceiling window, gazing out over the glittering skyline of Lima. The city stretched endlessly, its neon-lit towers climbing into the sky like illuminated sentinels, their reflections rippling across the synthetic canals below. Drones hummed quietly in the distance, darting between the buildings like mechanical birds, while holographic advertisements flickered along the street corners, painting the streets in a kaleidoscope of colors. Carlos, with his loose, flowy trousers and worn leather boots, stood in sharp contrast to the sleekness around him. His look—a mix of bohemian and hippie freedom—seemed out of place in this hypermodern world. With his long hair and oversized wristwatch, he exuded the carefree elegance of someone from another era, yet he was entirely present, enjoying the moment.

His apartment mirrored the city’s charm. Minimalist furniture, all smooth and curved, sat like sculptures on the polished concrete floors. Chairs seemed to float despite being on the ground, while a transparent table responded to his touch, adjusting its height and surface to his preference. Every surface gleamed, and the air was suffused with calming oxygen streams that wafted through hidden vents. This was a lifestyle designed for comfort and ease—a lifestyle he was about to leave behind.

The Eternals had appeared again to him only days ago, just as he was preparing for a silent retreat in the highlands. Their arrival had been through his augmented glasses, though no one else could see them.

"We will lead you into the community of Cahuachi," one of them said, her voice resonating with the guitar on the wall. "There, you will meet the traditional weavers who live there who carry on the techniques passed down through millennia, untouched by the rapid advancements of the modern world." To leave behind the comfort of his sleek, automated life to join them—hands in raw wool all day—seemed absurd. Yet the pull was undeniable.

Days later, he found himself standing at the edge of Cahuachi, staring at the city below. In stark contrast to the neon skyline he had left behind, this place was bathed in golden hues, the adobe structures melding into the desert.

The community was an odd fusion of the ancient and the advanced. Narrow streets wound through the city, but above them, sleek, silver cables connected the rooftops, and drones hovered seamlessly across the settlement. The weavers carried themselves erect whilst around their necks hung tiny devices that whispered and hummed with AI-enhanced intelligence, contrary to what Carlos had heard.

As he entered the main square, Carlos touched the pyramid hanging around his neck. It felt warm, as though it pulsed in sync with his heartbeat. The Prometheum alloy had a strange energy about it.

His attire was none too bizarre in the desert wind as he approached the weavers, their hands busy at work. They sat on simple stools, their tools ancient but their focus sharp. The looms stretched before them, each stretch they wove telling a story in the expanding fabric. Carlos knelt down, watching in silence, his heart beating in rhythm with the steady click-clack of the looms. Weaving, the Eternals had told him, was vital to understanding the mysteries.

As he began his work among them, he found himself shedding the allure of digital screens, and instead brushing against coarse wool. The transition wasn’t easy, but it felt right.

In Cahuachi, time seemed to move differently. The stars above were no longer obscured by neon lights but shone brightly in the clear desert sky. Here, surrounded by ancient traditions and the quiet hum of discrete technology, Carlos felt at peace. The pyramid, resting against his chest, was after all a dispenser of fortune. Then came his first test.

Peru found itself gripped by an unprecedented cotton root rot outbreak, a major fungal disease that wreaked havoc on cotton crops. The culprit was a soil-borne fungus, Phymatotrichopsis omnivora. Fields that once thrived with cotton now lay barren, their soil cracked and unyielding. The air was thick with dust, and the once vibrant valleys were quiet save for the whispers of wind through the dry, brittle crops. Now, the fields—maintained by years of labor—were empty.

The outbreak struck hardest in the agricultural heartland, where small communities like Carlos’s lived. Fields turned to stretches of desolation; it was the slow death of a way of life.

The government, desperate for solutions, called a general assembly in Lima. In grand halls surrounded by towering skyscrapers that cast long shadows over the city, officials, scientists, and community leaders met to address the crisis. Population stress levels, and climate impact assessments weighed heavily on the minds of officials.

Yet, as the assembly debated, word began to spread from a remote region—a part of Peru where the Pyramid had landed years earlier. There, something strange was happening. Abundance had returned to the land. Cotton was growing again, not just surviving but thriving. Fields that had lain barren now redoubled their harvests exceeding anything they had seen in generations.

The Pyramid itself had long been a source of mystery. Appearing seemingly out of nowhere, it was composed of Prometheum alloy—a material with properties that defied conventional understanding.

Carlos traveled to the region to investigate. His route took him on a sleek, high-speed maglev train that cut through the Andes with ease.

When he arrived in the region where the Pyramid had landed in the south, the change was palpable. The air was thick with the scent of earth and greenery, a sharp contrast to the barren lands he had passed. The farmers greeted him with hopeful smiles, their eyes bright with renewed life. As he walked through the fields, he marveled at the health of the crops which flourished under the shadow of the Pyramid.

Carlos’s augmented glasses flickered, scanning the surrounding area for any signs of technology. The readings were strange—electromagnetic pulses radiated from the Pyramid, seeping into the earth.

As Carlos observed the fields, he noticed cybernetic systems being used to maximize the yield.

“We had help,” another farmer explained, pointing to the devices. “Tech we could’ve never afforded before. The government’s been pouring resources into this area. We have AI monitoring the soil, water levels, nutrient content, that sort of drill. We used to rely on the old ways, but now... now we’re using something new.”

For the first time in years, hope had returned to the Peruvian landscape. The outbreak had been a cruel reminder of the fragility of life, but they had endured, they had adapted, and now, with the aid of both ancient wisdom and cutting-edge technology, they were thriving once again.

In the following year, Carlos Biltong found himself in Lima, Peru, standing in the sprawling, lush estate he owned and had earned for his groundbreaking work in advanced soil cultivation techniques. Carlos's private garden, a botanical masterpiece, was renowned for its flora, which ranged from rare carnivorous plants to flowering vines genetically modified to glow faintly at night.

Carlos, a recluse but a known authority in the field of soil science, seemed to live his daylight hours in his open-air pavilion, waiting for the pyramid, composed of an alloy so rare that it was considered a myth by many in the scientific community, to hum with a quiet energy.

Ball lightning, a rarely understood atmospheric phenomenon, appeared from nowhere. A glowing orb, about the size of a grapefruit, spiraled toward Carlos, crackling and emitting faint blue sparks. Before he could react, it struck his shoulder with the force of a thunderbolt. The world around him went white, and he felt a sensation unlike any he had ever experienced—not pain, but a tingling warmth. Yet, when the light faded, and his vision cleared, he was still standing, unharmed.

Carlos touched his shoulder, expecting to find charred skin or torn muscle. Instead, there was only a mark, a perfectly circular, faintly glowing mark. Astonished, he felt the pyramid around his neck, it was still there.

"You're lucky, Carlos," his wife’s voice called out from behind him. She had appeared, as if from thin air, with her usual unsettling smile. "That pyramid saved your life."

Carlos turned to face her, bewildered. "Saved me? I should be dead. What just happened?"

Carlos’s wife walked over, casually inspecting Carlos’s shoulder. "The ball lightning should have reduced you to ash, but you were wearing the pyramid. You see, Prometheum has fascinating properties when it comes to electromagnetism. It resonates at frequencies beyond our current understanding, if only temporarily."

"Yes, it creates a stabilizing effect. When exposed to intense energy—such as the ball lightning—it acts like a conduit, distributing the energy harmlessly."

Carlos still felt the residual energy coursing through him, his mind racing to comprehend the magnitude of what his wife was explaining. "So... this could be a temporal anomaly?"

Carlos looked around the garden, suddenly aware of the weight of the place. Everything here—the plants, the sculptures, the statues—seemed connected to his life. The air was charged with potential, as though the garden itself was alive with possibilities.

The garden's layout mimicked celestial constellations, its pathways aligned with the equinoxes. A large fountain at its center sprayed water in rhythmic patterns that corresponded to Fibonacci sequences. Carlos had designed this garden to reflect both entropy and as a text waiting for the Eternals’ decipherment in the future.

As Carlos stood there, contemplating his narrow escape from death, he felt a strange connection to it, as though the material itself was aware of his presence, aware of time itself. Perhaps this was no accident, but he was meant to be here, to survive, to learn something from the pyramid.

“You should be careful,” said his wife; the energies you’ve encountered today… they might not be done with you yet."

Carlos nodded, silently processing the warning. In the distance, the orange sky darkened to a deep purple, and the sky colours grew softer, though never truly greying. For the first time Carlos felt like more than just a weaver. He was now part of something much larger, richer, more tapestried.

In the year 2089, Cusco had become a city of contrasts—ancient ruins and futuristic structures coexisting in uneasy harmony. Bullet-shaped skyscrapers soared into the sky, their polished surfaces disappearing into the low-hanging clouds. The once clear Andean air was now filled with a hazy mist, reflecting blue and red lights. Mud clung to everything—the roads, the boots, even the walls of the shelters erected against the encroaching winter.

Carlos trudged through the muck, his shoes adjusting automatically to the uneven terrain. With each step, he practiced an almost unnatural stride. His augmented glasses flickered to life, displaying real-time data, weather patterns and energy surges—especially since the appearance of the Pyramid.

Cusco had become a focal point as there were rumors—whispers of ancient technology buried beneath the city, capable of altering the balance of power.

Carlos glanced down at his normally immaculate uniform which was smeared with dirt, the cold seeping into every joint and muscle. His gaze drifted to the pyramid hanging around his neck. It was then that the silence was broken by the sharp crack of a rifle. The bullet seemed to come from nowhere, cutting through the thick fog. Carlos barely had time to register what had happened before staggering back, clutching his chest.

Carlos remained standing. His hand dropped from his chest, revealing the pyramid. The bullet had hit him squarely, yet it hadn’t pierced his flesh. Instead, the round had glanced off the pyramid, as though it had struck solid metal. Carlos’s breath caught as he stared at the small pyramid. The surface of it seemed to ripple, the alloy responding to the energy of the impact, dispersing it harmlessly.

Carlos looked down at the now-dented bullet, his face pale but his eyes sharp. "Guess I owe my life to this little thing."

The pyramid could absorb and dissipate energy in ways no material less rare could.

Before another second had passed, his augmented glasses pinged with a notification. A transport drone hovered overhead, casting a faint blue light on the muddy ground. It was here to pick up the dented bullet. The drone’s sleek frame was a marvel of modern engineering, with energy-efficient rotors that allowed it to operate in silence. These advances made life bearable in this harsh world where nature had become an enemy as much as his would-be assassins' shot at him.

"You're lucky," Carlos admitted to himself, his unvoiced comment losing precedence to the wind.

The mud squelched beneath his feet as he continued forward, the towering skyscrapers looming above him like silent sentinels.

His hand brushed against the pyramid hanging from his neck, the Guardian object of the Eternals. The morning sun, fierce and relentless, seemed to grant him a certain warmth once again. He felt a surge of energy from the object.

Carlos whispered, “By embracing the Eternals’ legacy, I receive three benefits. I am protected in times of need, aided and supported in my moments of danger, and may be beyond dying.”  He believed it with every fibre of his being. Moments earlier, a fierce desert wind had threatened to send him crashing into the ruins below, but the object had steadied him, a quiet reminder of the Eternals' promise. It was as if invisible hands had guided his steps, kept him safe from harm.

The legend of the Guardian object spread far beyond Nazca. In Cusco, Carlos sat in a dingy bar. His hand was wrapped tightly around the small pyramid he'd been entrusted with for decades.

Staring into the dim glow with his augmented glasses, his mind cleared. The buzzing static of anxiety, fear, and doubt that usually clouded his thoughts disappeared. He muttered softly, “Who wears the pyramid find peace and resilience, that's me.”

He felt it in his bones with deep clarity. The Guardian object gave his life a purpose, his actions guided by something greater than the struggle of the moment.

The object hummed faintly, vibrating in a frequency too subtle for most instruments to detect. It was an enigma—beyond his understanding of materials science and even physics.

Carlos thought, “This is no ordinary gift,” and said it out loud, his voice trembling but then noticed the mud coating its exterior. “It’s a masterwork of knowledge, passed down by the Eternals to humankind.” He had this one last thought, then remembered the warning.

He believed the Object held the key to time itself, a way to unlock the mysteries of the universe, to bridge the gaps between past, present, and future. As he gazed into its shimmering surface, he felt as if he could see fragments of eternity—the rise and fall of civilizations, the ebb and flow of human progress. Then he realized, it was the end.