Aperture E-Book

Elena Holzheu

• Herausgeber: BoD - Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 164

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Aperture is an atmospheric, genre-bending novel set in Switzerland teetering on the edge of collapse, economically fragile, geopolitically fragmented, and psychically unstable. Against this backdrop unfolds the deeply personal and metaphysically charged story of Kim Voss, a late-diagnosed autistic clairaudient and reluctant seer. When her psychic sensitivity begins to interfere with covert operations monitored by a shadowy global security cabal, she becomes the unsuspecting nexus of a reality-bending conflict. What begins as an introspective character study soon escalates into a high-stakes metaphysical thriller. Through the layered perspectives of Voss and Norman Gauss, an enigmatic observer assigned to monitor her, the narrative deftly explores the psychological, spiritual, and political consequences of perception, identity, and surveillance in a digitized age.

Leseprobe

Et lux in tenebris lucet, et tenebrae eam non comprehenderunt.

John 1:5

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Epilogue

1

Kim Voss adjusted her scarf as a brisk wind snaked alongside the riverbank. Lumen, her dog, tugged at the leash, his enthusiasm undampened by the gray morning. Above, skeletal branches framed the silvery sky like the bones of some ancient, forgotten beast.

This was her sanctuary—the city half-asleep, the day yet to take shape. The voices in her mind weren’t silent today, merely subdued, an indistinct murmur beneath her own thoughts. For most of her life, she had struggled with what she believed to be intrusive thoughts. The voices she heard ranged from whispers of encouragement to cryptic warnings or inexplicable chatter that seemed oddly specific but entirely out of context.

Her journey to the psychic school in her late twenties had not been accidental—a last-ditch effort after overhearing a conversation about a place that "helps people make sense of things like that." She had found herself in a classroom full of all walks of life individuals who were unashamedly discussing visions, sensations, and psychic powers. For the first time, she hadn’t felt so alone. In the first few weeks, the structured exercises had designed to help students identify and refine their abilities and reveal their clairs. The instructor, a seasoned, weighty and slightly unkempt medium, explained that what they are perceiving are fragments of spiritual or energetic communication, not random noise. As they progressed, they began to sort through their individual experiences, discerning helpful guidance from meaningless chatter. With practice, they learned techniques such to open up, to tune in or to quiet the voices altogether when they needed to concentrate on this side of reality.

Initially, she had doubted herself and her ability to work with the voices. Over time, however, she started using her psychic abilities to offer insight or aid to herself and others.

Now, a scrambling writer in her late forties, her connection to the otherworld had been solidly established. She was able to discern subtle energetic shifts and recognize when an important message was coming through. She used her clairaudience with precision, whether to help others, receive guidance, or explore spiritual truths.

Lumen froze, ears pricked. His gaze locked onto the rippling surface of the river. Kim followed his line of sight, her breath catching. “Come on, there’s nothing there,” she muttered. Lumen hesitated but eventually relented, his nails clicking against the gravel path as they moved on.

By the time they reached her apartment, the city had shaken off its slumber. Delivery trucks rumbled along cobblestone streets, and an old man swept leaves into a pile that the wind immediately scattered again. Kim paused, watching him in admiration. The futility of his task didn’t seem to bother him.

She glanced up at the adjacent building. Norman Gauss lived there. She’d seen him on occasion, usually on her second, late morning walk. He too would walk his striking dog—a Belgian Malinois with eyes that seemed too aware for a dog. She’d never spoken to Norman but had overheard enough to learn his name. He moved through the world with an air of quiet purpose, a stark contrast to the rest of the people living that area. His dog’s name, Jet, only added to the mystique.

Shaking her head, she unlocked her door and stepped inside. Lumen trotted to his spot near the window, curling up with a contented sigh. Kim poured water into his bowl, the sound echoing in her apartment. She lived in a penthouse, by herself. It oversaw the old city. From her bedroom she could see the Gate of Spalen, dating back to the 14th century, a time of witch hunts, forced labor and beheadings.

After her late autism diagnosis at age 44 she had retreated completely into her apartment. As a writer, she was able to work from home. The apartment had been a lucky strike after hard times.

The kettle whistled, breaking the spell. She poured tea into her favorite chipped mug and wandered to the window. Below, the river snaked through the city, its surface deceptively calm.

Kim had a ritual for days like this—when her writing would stall, and the voices refused to quiet. After a second cup of tea, she would bundle up and head to the old bookstore tucked between a florist and a shuttered café in the old city’s main street. The shop was called Heini’s and was run by a wiry, bespectacled man named Heinrich Gerber, whose love for books bordered on obsession. Kim rarely saw him without a stack of worn volumes cradled in his arms, his clothes perpetually dusted with the fine powder of aged paper. She arrived just as he was unlocking the door, his gloved hands fumbling with a stubborn key.

“Ah, Frau Voss,” he greeted her with a smile. “You’re early today.” Kim returned the smile. “I needed a change of scenery.”

He held the door open for her, and she stepped into the familiar scent of ink, timeworn pages and damp masonry. The space was cramped, every available surface stacked with books. Narrow aisles snaked between towering shelves, creating a labyrinth that Heinrich navigated with ease, but which left newcomers disoriented.

Kim made her way to her usual corner near the philosophy section, where an old armchair sagged invitingly. She ran her fingers along the spines of the books, their titles fading under years of handling. It was comforting, this world of quiet order. She picked up a slim volume by a Swiss mystic she had been meaning to read and sank into the armchair.

“Looking for something specific?” Heinrich’s voice broke her reverie. She glanced up to see him hovering nearby, a small stack of books balanced precariously in one hand.

“Not really,” she said, holding up the mystic’s book. “Just something to keep me busy.”

Heinrich nodded thoughtfully. “You might like this one.” He plucked a thin, leather-bound book from the shelf behind him and handed it to her. The title was embossed in gold: The Veil and the Mirror. She traced the letters with her finger, feeling the slight indentation in the leather.

“What’s it about?”

“Perception,” Heinrich said, adjusting his glasses. “How the act of looking changes what is seen. It’s an odd little book—part philosophy, part poetry. I thought of you when it came in.”

She hesitated, then added it to her growing pile. “Thanks.” As he walked back to the counter, she opened the book to its first page. The language was dense but beautiful, filled with strange, looping metaphors. Switching to the last page she read:

“Epilogue

Mirrors fold inward,

A machine dreams of waking—

Who counts endless days?

She read it again. That’s a keeper, she thought to herself. Kim closed the book and placed it in her bag, She paid Heinrich for the books and left the shop. The streets outside were busier now, a steady flow of people going about their lives.

Life had recovered after the lockdowns and endless security protocols of the Covid 19 pandemic. But the economy had not recovered as everyone had hoped it would. The world in general had been slipping toward the end of 2024, slowly and imperceptibly at first, into something unrecognizable. It began with UAP sightings in New Jersey and England, over nuclear military sites and more frequently over residential areas as well—dismissed by the outgoing Biden administration as regular commercial drone activity or natural phenomena, which, they so blatantly were not. As the incidents accumulated, their undeniable strangeness became harder to ignore, and people turned more and more to social media outlets instead of legacy media to get their news updates. Many of course having turned into echo chambers of hardening political divides and fringe interests, only adding to the radicalization.

Reports of drones moving with eerie precision became commonplace. Some looked like sea creatures. They were unlike anything developed by even the most advanced known military contractors, their shapes shifting mid-flight, edges folding into themselves as if they were alive. No nation claimed them, and no explanation was offered from the part of any government. They appeared without warning, flying and hovering silently over urban centers, remote villages, and uninhabited wilderness alike. They seemed to almost map the terrain before vanishing as quickly as they had come.

Speculation ran rampant. Governments were accused of experimenting with AI-powered reconnaissance systems. Private corporations were scrutinized, their patents dissected by independent investigators. Conspiracy theorists suggested extraterrestrial origins or ties to clandestine globalist agendas. The official responses were unhelpful to say the least, alternating between disinterest and flat-out denial.

When President Donald J. Trump came to power and initiated a sweeping tariff regime that targeted not only Chinese electronics but also European machinery, Canadian steel, and Japanese automotive components the world entered a state of prolonged economic turbulence.

A year on, global supply chains had unraveled into tangled knots of bureaucracy, price hikes, and delayed deliveries. Cargo ships idled at ports for weeks. Warehouses sat half-empty. People waited months for replacement parts—a broken refrigerator compressor, a worn-out car alternator, even common medical devices like insulin pumps or CPAP machines. In rural areas, mechanics had begun to salvage parts from junkyards and black-market networks. In cities, repair cafés turned into informal barter hubs. What had once been taken for granted—a functioning washing machine, a serviceable phone screen, a safe ride to work—became tenuous and fragile.

Economically, inflation metastasized. Tariff surcharges trickled down through every stage of production and distribution. Grocery stores hiked prices weekly. Electronics became luxury goods. The middle class, already strained by the pandemic’s legacy, was pushed further toward precarity. Governments issued subsidies, but it was like pouring water on a grease fire. The financial markets remained volatile, and currencies danced erratically against one another as nation-states decoupled their dependencies, each trying to shore up internal stability.

Geopolitically, the situation had grown even more combustible. The tariff war reignited nationalist fervor across the globe. Former allies in the WTO began forging new, exclusive blocs—resource-protection alliances rather than trade agreements. The United States found itself increasingly isolated, embroiled in diplomatic disputes with Europe, retaliatory measures from China, and destabilized relations in the Pacific. Many feared that the economic standoff would soon spiral into open conflict—another proxy war or worse, as tensions between the U.S., Russia, and China now converged across Africa and Southeast Asia.

In times like these, it was easy to believe that history turned in broad, visible strokes—presidents, policies, and press releases. But real shifts often began in silence, engineered in the shadows by those no one had ever voted for. Beneath Basel’s ancient bones, another war was already in motion. It had nothing to do with tariffs or treaties—and everything to do with a woman who walked her dog by the river each morning, unaware of how many eyes were watching.

2

In an underground complex somewhere beneath the city, the local SSC chapter resumed its meeting. The conference room was a disorienting blend of advanced tech and subtle menace. Walls of seamless alloy flickered between views of deep space and shifting symbols that hinted at global surveillance—or something stranger. A faint green light pulsed rhythmically, casting a sickly glow over the levitating black table in the center of the room. Its surface rippled like liquid, transforming anything placed on it into holographic constructs that rearranged themselves with unsettling precision.

Chairs of self-adjusting bioplastic conformed to their occupants, analyzing posture and stress. An obelisk-like AI interface loomed at the far end, its shifting sigils and sharp voice offering commands. Overhead, a map of solar system, partitioned in sections as well as an indication of the parties and fleet sizes of the sections’ commands.

A mixture of ozone filled the room, amplifying the tension. As the attendees settled in, the room seemed alive with an intelligence that felt more watchful than welcoming. The tech stack in this facility was at least 50 years ahead of its time.

“What do we know about Gauss?” asked the gravelly-voiced head of station.

“Joined NATO immediately after school and the German Armed Forces in Canada, in between serving as a maneuver coordinator for the US armed forces on exercises and even trained with the French Foreign Legion for a while. An operative we recruited about ten years ago. He’s a sigma, one of our node busters,” another figure replied.

“Has he been assigned to Voss yet?”

“Yes, but it didn’t take, she’s more advanced than we anticipated,” a female officer interjected. Her tone was clinical, detached. “We suspect Voss is an Orionite node. She seems to be in direct contact with the council of nine.”

“What is her activation trajectory?”

“As far as we can tell, she is not conscious of her role yet, but she has been resonating steadily at 741Hz. We must prevent her from being activated. She will do much damage if she is. We cannot let that happen. Too many Orionite nodes have gone online already, they are starting to seriously mess with the matrix.”

The gravelly voice cut her off. “Alright, make Gauss step things up. What’s his cover again?”

“Photographer. I don’t know why he is having such a hard time to get in contact with her,” the female officer replied.

Another figure interrupted her. “You know the stakes. Recalibrate Gauss and make him to get a move on or we’ll pull the plug on him.”

A silence settled over the group.

“Voss is autistic, so that might be the issue,” the woman added after a pause.

The gravelly voice exhaled sharply, a mix of irritation and resignation. “There’s always a way. Gauss is on the spectrum too, so they should have plenty in common. Hell, they could check out each other’s stamp albums for all I know,” he remarked with disgust.

“Nodes are tough nuts to crack Gavin, you should know that. We haven’t dealt with autistic nodes before, so give Gauss some slack.”

“O.k., Susan, I want you to monitor the situation closely. I expect weekly status updates from you. Meanwhile I need you to work out some contingency plans in case the situation gets out of hand.”

Somewhere in the city above, Norman Gauss stirred from sleep with a start. The meeting might have ended, but its tendrils were already inside him.

3

Norman Gauss sat at his desk, the dim light of his apartment filtering through the half-drawn blinds. In front of him lay his notebook, its pages filled with location details, weather conditions, project descriptions, symbols, motifs, mood boards and names. After all, he was a professional photographer.

Norman’s thoughts drifted to the woman with the dog that he’d seen a couple of times. He didn’t know why she lingered in his thoughts. Something about her felt eerily familiar, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. In his notes, her name appeared more than once, underlined each time, Kim Voss.

Among his notes too were scribbles and patterns he couldn’t explain, number series and keywords that made sense only in fleeting moments of lucidity. He wasn’t sure where they came from. Sometimes they emerged from dreams, vivid and jumbled. Other times, his hand seemed to move without his permission, as if guided by an unseen force.

A sudden ping echoed through his mind, sharp and intrusive. He froze. The sensation wasn’t unfamiliar and reminded him of the time he was having brain zaps, withdrawal side effects when coming off his anxiety medication. This felt like a thought that wasn’t his own, a presence subtly invading his mental space. The message came, not as words, but as an impression: Focus on her.

The moment passed as quickly as it had come, leaving him dizzy. He took a deep breath, steadying himself. It had been happening more often lately. Vague directives, fragments of imagery, and an overwhelming compulsion to follow through. He tried to rationalize it as part of his condition—his autism—a trick of his overactive mind. But deep down, he suspected something darker.

His phone buzzed, pulling him from his thoughts. On the display a message in an encrypted app he didn’t remember downloading. A single line of text glowed on the display:

Blomquist. The sun sets in reverse. 13 7 4 11.

Norman’s stomach churned and an agonizing tinnitus set in immediately. As if someone had switched off an old CRT television, leaving behind a sharp, high-pitched whine that clings to the silence, unrelenting. He didn’t just hear the sound—he felt it in his guts, a piercing frequency that cut through his thoughts and settled stubbornly in the background, manifesting as eminent lower back pain, refusing to be ignored.

He didn’t know who sent the message or why, but dismissing it wasn’t an option. He’d learned that much. The last time he’d tried, he’d blacked out for hours, waking up disoriented and miles away from home. When he checked the camera roll on his phone a while later, he’d found photos he didn’t remember taking. Photos of the woman with the dog. There she was, walking along the riverbank, her dog trotting beside her. The photos were innocuous—scenic shots of the city’s quiet charm—but he knew better. He’d been tracking her unconsciously, driven by an inexplicable compulsion that felt both foreign and inescapable.

A few days later, Norman was walking Jet along their usual route near the riverbank when he spotted her. Kim Voss stood a few yards ahead, Lumen tugging at his leash as he sniffed at the base of a tree.

“Good morning,” Norman said, his voice awkward but polite.

Kim turned, her eyes narrowing briefly in recognition. “Good morning. I think I’ve seen you around. You live in the building next to mine, right?”, she said noncommittally.

Norman nodded. “Correct. This is Jet.” He gestured to the Belgian Malinois, who was sniffing Lumen with polite curiosity “And my name is Norman.”

“Lumen,” Kim said, pointing to her Airedale Terrier with a cautious half smile, pointing to herself, “Kim, nice to meet you.”

Norman glanced at his dog and then blurted out, “Belgian Malinois always look like they’re thinking about something important.”

Kim tilted her head, amusement flickering across her face. “Lumen just wants to be in the water, that is all he cares about.”

For a moment, their eyes met, and an unspoken understanding passed between them. The long silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, the dogs were getting acquainted now. Finally, Kim shifted, tugging lightly at Lumen’ leash. “Well, it was nice meeting you Norman. I’ll… see you around.”

“Yeah,” Norman replied, his voice barely above a whisper.

As he walked away, he was replaying the interaction over and over in his mind.

Why didn’t I say something? Something memorable?

He winced, shaking his head.

Belgian Malinois always look like they’re thinking about something important. Really? I might as well have said, ‘Hi, I’m boring. Nice to meet you.’