released November 15, 2011

NOVACHILD Album #7 - "Havia"

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Tracks:
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1/ Analogue Revolutionary (4:14)
2/ The Grand Stream (4:54)
3/ Kiss That Baby (5:30)
4/ Ice Cold (5:21)
5/ Cultivate The Void (4:02)
6/ Sleepytime (5:15)
7/ Our Pleasant Moments Fly (4:35)

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Credits
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• Written, Produced & Recorded by Bruce Rich. Recorded in the Fractal Factory between June 2009 and October 2011.

• Drums on "Analogue Revolutionary," "Kiss That Baby," "Ice Cold," "Cultivate The Void," "Sleepytime," and "Our Pleasant Moments Fly" by James McGowan.

• Bass Guitar on "Ice Cold," "Cultivate The Void," Sleepytime," and "Our Pleasant Moments Fly" by Ransom Conner.

• Vocals on "Cultivate The Void" by Semra Rich.

• Guitar, Percussion, Trumpet, Synth, Flute by Bruce Rich.

NOVACHILD ONLINE:

www.novachild.com
www.reverbnation.com/novachild/
www.facebook.com/novachild

Special thanks to the artists who contributed to this project. You can find them online:

Timothy "Ransom" Conner (Facebook): www.facebook.com/timothy.conner.bassplayer
James McGowan (Facebook): www.facebook.com/Drummermac

Extra special thanks to my family for being patient, understanding, and sometimes dragging me out of the studio for a bite to eat.

Nods also to those who came before me.

Novachild #8 is already in the works. Stay tuned and be sure to 'fan' me on Reverbnation and Facebook. By doing so, you help my music reach more ears, and thus support my efforts. Cheers.

Havia by Novachild is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.

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Novachild Discography
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Novachild - Micro Cosm (LP) (2000)
Novachild - Subliminal Skin (EP) (2003)
Novachild - Traveller (LP) (2004)
Novachild - NoEmptySpaces (LP) (2006)
Novachild - Weary Demons (LP) (2007)
Novachild - Origins (LP) (2009)
Novachild - “Auricular Audio Magazine #14 (Compilation) (2009)
Novachild - Havia (2011)

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The Story So Far
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The last Human. This phrase pleased the king in one breath, and filled him with dread in the next. How could they be certain? And how could they go so far?

Endless lines of Humans, long since extinct from their homeworld, herded toward the massive steel structures under the prodding of Havian Sentinels; women, children, men all alike in their scrawny, half-starved state had crawled willingly into the bowels of welcome death. Some cities suffered from rioting due to the phasing out of their prime entertainment, but this seemed to have calmed upon the realization that there were no Human animals left to destroy. Secure in his private decision to retain one surviving Human among the many, Chalmo merely nodded at the book in the casing and called out to Bergan.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Take me to him.”

Bound, gagged and stinking in its own waste, the Human had been pushed beyond madness, starved into near-death and left as a broken husk on the cold, mossy floor. The tribulation had pleased everyone in the regime, at least outwardly, and the news carriers were greeted with joy throughout the Havian Empire, or so the reports stated by his informants. Old field maidens kissed his Royal Servicemen with glee, and children ran circles around the regiments, tossing with gaiety the hand-picked desert blossoms of their land. But the King was not so pleased, and as these thoughts circled within his awareness, he felt equally unsure as to why his feelings toward the creature had changed.

Guarding this rare obscenity was a troop of Sentinels, selected carefully by Chalmo and his military staff. The King motioned the guards to clear a path, and as he moved toward the bars, he could feel the inevitable shadow of Fate struggling to take hold. “Great Amo, not just now,” he prayed, whispering a curse to dispel the pain in his chest. Relief did not come, but neither did the passing.

He peered through the darkness of the bars, calling out passionately for the last Human by name. There came a ruffling of straw in the dimness, and then a silhouette emerged, stinking of decay and damp earth. The King felt unclean, as if he hadn’t bathed in weeks. His own sour perspiration mixed with the death-smell, causing him to heave a little.

“Are you alright, Majesty?” asked one of the guards.

“It is nothing. I merely ate too much for breakfast, and the smell is getting to me.” If Chalmo could cry like a Human, he would have done so. Instead, he simply lowered his head from sight of the creature and stepped back a pace. “I wish to be alone with it,” he said, detecting the trepidation in his voice. The guards seemed perplexed, probably wondering why the King, an important leader, would ever bother with such mundane matters. “I noticed your silence, Bergan. Do you not object to my sympathetic fancy?”

The tall, thin Sentinel bowed his head. “I would not object to anything which pleases you,” he replied in a saccharine voice.

“Somehow I think it’s just the opposite with you,” replied the King. “But no matter. Go away from me.”

“As you wish,” replied Bergan, restraining his bitterness. He turned on one heel and marched into the darkness.

The last human emerged from shadows and time stopped for the King.

A creaking hinge in the darkness brought him to attention. The King swiveled upon his hind toes, becoming a wraith of streaming coattails as he turned to face the intrusion. The swift movement betrayed his age, yet the torches flickering in the sudden draft were relatively unseen by his imperfect eyesight. Thick, dancing shadows played upon the cold, gray stone of the castle walls, but they were a blur to the king with out his spectacles. The abstract shapes conjured images of terror to match the incessant alarm buzzing inside his head. He felt old and afraid for the first time in centuries. The framed darkness beyond the door seemed to peer back at him.

Then there came a dark, bellowing fit of laughter from beyond.

“Who dares to intrude!” commanded King Chalmo’s roaring, steady voice. “I say, reveal yourself this very instant!” He composed himself in the dimness, and still no reply came. Reaching for the hilt of his sword in a trained movement, his nostrils suddenly flared against the scent of decay that poured in from the hallway. The room now reeked of death, a kind of death unknown upon the face of this dry, oceanless planet, for it was the smell of rotting sea creatures and sour, malignant weeds that seemed to solidify in the air around him. So foul and pungent was the odor that it plagued him with a retching fit, and the King spilled his evening meal onto the undignified cobbles beneath his aching feet.

Wiping his beard with one golden sleeve, the cold metal in the other hand called him to action. Chalmo flung the blade expertly toward the unknown target, expecting an impaling thud. The clanging sound that followed gave no relief. “You there, bring yourself into the light at once!” He shouted. “Guards, come quickly!”

It obeyed, but the guards, which should have been at post by his door, did not come to his immediate rescue. Perhaps they are already dead, or perhaps even conspiring against me. Ashram knows I probably deserve it. Thoughts such as these did little comfort in times of plight, yet they were astoundingly effective in stirring up the oppression that bellowed in his corpulent gut.

Almost silent whispers curled up from the hollow darkness. History will make you a great man, Chalmo. But you and I, we take the truth to our graves.

The silhouette migrated into the torchlight, a gleaming blade held taut in its dark-skinned fingers. Narrow, pitted eyes bore down upon him, revealing a whisper of white surrounding two jet-black pupils seemingly aflame with rage. The King stood speechless, weaponless, his eyes bulging in utter perplexity. He envisioned his dark, ancient blood dripping from that blade, that clenched fist of midnight black. “It cannot be,” he whispered, his frail wings shivering, his voice crackling with a lifetime of agitation and the heart in his chest skipping several vital beats. The sudden, electric pain of recognition immobilized his soul to the very core. His bowels moved of their own volition, and he found that he could not control the shaking, the tremendous trembling, which welled up within him like a sudden storm. “No. This cannot be!”

The shape moved closer still, blocking out the torchlight until the King was once again faced with the ominous shadow. Chalmo ran backward toward the far wall, tripping on his long, golden robe as he tried to drive his large, obese frame around and away from the approaching threat. He landed sideways on the cobblestone floor, with one arm twisted and fixed agonizingly beneath his large torso. His regal jaw had dislodged on impact, yet his powerful lungs accomplished a desperate slur of pleas from the crooked mouth that twitched of its own volition upon the floor. “Guards! Guards!” He screamed, closing his eyes to welcome death and infinity. His voice trailed off into sonar, followed by the familiar reverberation of guards trampling through the corridor beyond. But by the time the royal guards arrived at his door, the king was stiff and ghostly white, and his assailant was nowhere to be found.