The Original Acking Tape 

***The red dust swirled, a crimson fog that choked even the filtered air of the habitat. **Pulmonary Nightmares** were a daily occurrence on Mars, a constant threat, but today, they were different. Today, they were…real. A guttural rattle, a sound like broken gears, escaped Elias’s throat, a physical echo of the *Asthmatic Bells* tolling in his mind, reminding him of earth's breath.
The **Breathless Tomb** of his oxygen tank loomed, nearly empty. He fumbled for the regulator, his vision blurring. He remembered a time when every lungful was a gift, taken for granted in a world of blue skies and whispering winds. He remembered…
…*Mars air and breathing problems*—an order from the lab, a directive that hung in the air as heavy as the martian atmosphere. No one could be trusted with their own breath, or so the government said.

He remembers the **Lobular Masque**, a suffocating mask of metallic cold. He remembers its press-fit across his face. The mask was like a second skin, but one that choked him.

He remembers the first days. Everything was always backwards.
The last entry in his log:

*…to write, the mission, the story, starts.*
*…found this morning the old journal. A terrible crime.*
*…the crime the record lathe that produced the original Acking Tape s/t LP . They have all been destroyed.*
*…the recordings disappeared!*
*…Inzane Studios (East Lansing, Michigan), 1 January - Feb 2025 - the date is crucial. The time is crucial.*
*… the Mix CD edition, but I need to fix it.*
Elias stumbled, gasping. A mechanical whirring filled the air, accompanied by a chorus of tiny squeaks. From the shadows, a hulking, deactivated maintenance bot, its chassis corroded, its optical sensors flickering, lurched forward. From its open service hatch, scurrying forms spilled forth. The rats. The machine began to speak, its voice a distorted, synthesized imitation of the Bard:

“*Hark, mortal, and attend! For I, a broken husk of steel and wire, do speak, through vermin’s choir! Reverse the flow!*
*The echoes gone. Of memories, it seems, the future it doth seem.*
*Before all truth, shall time unfurl, and bring the end to this world.*
*The tape, it spins, a phantom reel, revealing the great despair of every feel.*
*From shattered past, a twisted fate, a cruel decree, before it is too late.*
*The lathe, the sounds, the song it weaves, with threads of time, it's the one that deceives!*
*The disc of sound, a twisted key, to Inzane Studios, the time to see*
*For lo, the dust, it doth conceal, a truth, of which thy heart will reel!*
*And those who sought to steal the light, the hidden days, the hidden night.*
*From thy own breath, thy fate is sealed, and that which thou has found, it is revealed.*
*So heed my words, and heed them well, where the clock strikes doom, and heaven’s bell!*”

The bot shuddered, a rat disappearing into a open circuit. The sound of rats came from within, a metal and furry cacophony.
His mind raced. The mission to Mars, and the recordings from the lathe, had to be saved. And the air was thin…so thin…
He saw it then, in the swirling dust—a phantom. An image from another memory, an image from before the madness. And it was, he knew, his only hope.
He pulled the **Pneuma Pendulum** from its place. It was like a beacon, a silent bell chiming in his mind. The clock started ticking once again. The sound from the pendulum was not there, but in this madness it was always there. His mind raced, the vision was not there, but in this madness it was always there, always there...

ACKING TAPE lathe cut lp side one

JOHNNY R. SPYKES