by Scott Baker
Initially Diego had liked it because of the action. He had started to pay attention as soon as the man began to battle the lions. It was more the way it was filmed, though – he had never seen anything like it. He felt like he was living the events as they happened. He did not like it when they whipped the sad man. He had wanted to turn away, but he had not. He expected his father to tell him he was not allowed to watch it, that it was too violent, but his father had not. Now as he watched, they were speaking in Spanish.
Elizabeth Jones hated the television. She hated the news that it brought, like this morning when she had heard about that terrible tragedy of a cardinal leaping to his death from the top of the Vatican roof. He was French, they had said, and she did not like the French. Nor did she like Germans, Blacks or Asians. She especially didn’t like the television, but today was different. Today there was something happening that had never been done before on British television, and it had grabbed her attention. She had missed the tube to work because, try as she might, she just could not look away from the screen. It was a British production, she was sure, but it was fresh and new, and so incredibly addictive. She tried to call in sick, but she could not get a line out on her phone.
Miyako Matsui lay with her lover. Tadaka Yamishita was the man she would marry, she was sure of it. He came from a good family, had an honourable trade as an investment banker and lived in an upper-city thirty-second-floor Tokyo apartment. She loved staying with him on the weekends like this, because the view of the city at night never failed to seduce her. The blues, greens, reds and yellows weaved a living tapestry of life and energy. She particularly loved his one-hundred-and-sixty-four-centimetre flat-panel television. It sat against the window and was framed by the blurred backdrop of the night sky. They usually watched a movie after making love, but tonight there was something amazing on television. It had what she assumed were American actors, but they spoke perfect Japanese. It had been ages since she had seen anything natively Japanese that had this much money spent on it, but the new technique was cutting edge, and she knew that Japanese animators and film-makers were renowned for that. She cuddled up closer to Tadaka and listened in awe to what was being said.
Graeme Fontéyne sat alone in a cave on the outskirts of Jerusalem. He had been sitting and thinking for about two hours now. He replayed again and again the events of a few days before. The iron spikes had been driven cleanly through the palms of the man’s hands, not through the wrists as had been debated among scholars. It had rained, which was something no one had documented; that evening it had rained and thundered all night.
His mother had been there, with his other followers, but the guards had kept them well back. Graeme had taken the spear, the one that pierced the man’s side. The Roman had laid it down on a rock as he had helped remove the body, and Graeme had taken it and broken it into three parts in order to fit it beneath his tunic.
He was not thinking clearly. He had not done so for days now. He flexed his hand and rolled his fingers. They were all there. His fingers were all there. One of them now wore an intricately carved gold ring that danced in the firelight. It had been Pilate’s ring, and was the Governor’s show of gratitude for saving his life. Graeme had seen, and owned, this ring before, a gift from his grandfather. Graeme would pass it on.
He was not sure what to do now, so he just sat. It was late and dark, and Malbool had taken Mishca to an inn so they could rest. So now Graeme sat alone and stared at the flame as it danced in the occasional breeze that filtered into the cave. He absently flicked his tongue on the back of his teeth, starting and stopping the recording with each pass. He had captured it all, and now there was nothing to record but the dance of the flame.
‘How is your hand?’
The voice startled him.
Graeme looked around but did not see anyone. No one had known he was coming here. Only seconds later did he realise the question had come in English. An agent.
‘I never thanked you,’ came the voice again, and this time Graeme pinpointed its origin. He stared deep into the shadows at the back of the cave as a figure stepped forward into the light. The shadows danced and flickered on the man’s face, and the orange of the flame gave vibrancy to his olive skin. Graeme scrambled backwards and slipped over. His heart began to pound, and that all too familiar surge of adrenaline filled his system. This time, though, it was through a sense that was unfamiliar to Graeme Fontéyne: fear.
‘Relax,’ the man said. ‘It’s all right. This is what you’re here for, isn’t it?’ The man beamed a smile through his beard, which now appeared soft and well groomed. In fact, everything about the wavy-haired, brown-eyed man glowed. Graeme had seen this man before, not three days earlier, with impossible injuries and bruises. This iridescent version of that same man was not possible.
‘We all have our part to play. Yours and mine, Graeme, are interwoven. You must complete your mission, and I must complete mine.’ He made it sound so simple.
Graeme’s heart calmed just a little, and his sense of awe replaced that of fear. The man had used his name. His real name. Not the one by which he went in this ancient time, but the name his mother would give him two thousand years from now.
‘Come, sit with me. You have many questions you wish to ask me. Am I right?’ Joshua Ben Jacob, the man they called Jesus, asked. ‘But first I want to thank you,’ he said kindly.
‘For … for helping you when … helping you when you fell?’ Graeme stammered, finding his voice, shaky as it was.
‘For not killing him. I know you wanted to. Thank you for your restraint,’ Jesus said. Graeme thought of the guard who had whipped and driven the Jew ever onwards, without remorse or pity.
‘Now, please, sit with me. Ask everything you have been told to ask. Ask also whatever it is that you want to know for your own sake.’
Graeme sat, dumbfounded. He looked into the eyes of the man before him and saw no hint of malice. No hint of judgement or deceit. He saw only endless patience. The man was in no rush. Graeme gathered himself, running a mental finger over the files organised in his mind and structured his questions. There were many of them, and it had taken one of The Facility’s advanced memory techniques to allow him to recall them in order: questions of science, of philosophy, of meaning.
After taking a deep breath, he began to speak.
The conclave of cardinals sat in silence. They had been called together to do their duty. Only once before had a Pope announced retirement from the papacy. Müller had cited the cancer that had taken his health, and his subsequent inability to lead any longer.
When they had first arrived, most had already known which way they would vote, and were prepared to sit through the days of deliberation merely as a formality – but now Le Clerque was dead. He had thrown himself from the roof of the Vatican in a fit of remorse, or so it had been reported.
This particular session had lasted longer than any previously. Thirteen hours. Twelve of those hours had been spent watching the presentation that had just finished. There was no longer any need to vote. The man who would lead the Church, a radically different Church, had already been named by the man who spoke out from the screen. The man who had been chosen to ‘Bring me to my people.’
The doorbell rang. Shaun drew away from the television and walked over to open it. The turkey had been proudly placed in the centre of the dining table, which was set ornately with condiments and cutlery. Smells of rich, basted meat and roasted potatoes filled the room. When the door swung open, Shaun smiled at his guests. He embraced David Senior and smiled, bidding him to come in. He politely kissed David’s wife, Anna, on the cheek as they embraced. Then Shaun looked at David, the young David, the David he had not known personally for years. David Junior shuffled nervously from one foot to another, before Shaun stepped forward and embraced him too.
‘Hey! How’s the education?’ Shaun asked as he ushered David in.
‘Ah, man, it’s … unbelievable. I can’t … I had no idea. I mean, you’re
incredible … I can’t …’ David stammered.
‘Settle down!’ He gave David a playful jab in the ribs. The engineer recoiled and walked inside to see where Shaun lived. A modest yet comfortable North Carolina home. David had been studying and living at The Facility for the past few months, and this was his first venture out.
He was nervous to meet this new Shaun, a man he didn’t know. The man who apparently had worked with the senior version of himself to engineer a feat unheard of in human history … and what was his greatest desire? To sit and eat turkey with his wife and friends.
They all sat after greeting Lauren and congratulating her on the feast she had prepared. They also congratulated her on the news of an addition to the Strickland family, who would join them in the not too distant future. Shaun excused himself from the table to turn down the television …
‘… so much correct or incorrect. What you have come to call science is a method, it is not a thing. It is a way of testing things, a way of describing them. It is a structure that allows you to explore and move forward.
‘Take the medium that I have chosen to use to deliver this message to the world. Science will say that there are red, green and blue dots grouped together, phosphors illuminated by a cathode ray at varying intensities, or liquid crystals displaying one of a finite number of pixel hues. Religion would step back from the screen and say, “It’s a picture of a face.” Both are correct, but they look at different aspects of the same thing. Things are the way they are; it is only your description and understanding of them that changes. When …’
Shaun pressed the mute button. He had seen this show before, and he knew he would see it again. He sat back at the table. For now he would enjoy the night with his friends. A night during which he did not know what the conversation would be, or what would happen. A night where anything was possible. One thing was certain, however: like a thief in the night, the ‘second coming’ had arrived. It played now simultaneously all over the world. It played so everyone heard it in their own language, so everyone understood. Shaun knew that he had played his part, and that everything had come full circle. He knew that tomorrow, the world would be a different place.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
There are many people I would like to thank for this book becoming a reality:
Mum and Dad, thanks for conceiving me. I couldn’t have done this without you going through the birthing process. Oh, and thanks for all the support that came after that too! Thanks to my brother Brett for your faith in me.
To the team at Hachette for your belief and hard work: Vanessa, Matt, Kate, Shaun, Nicola, Claire and all who work tirelessly behind the scenes. A special thanks to Matthew Reilly, a man with more courage than any of his action heroes.
To my wonderful, talented Sarah, who tolerates, supports and encourages me in equal measure. To Gavin, Eddy and Lindz – the ‘make look awesome’ filters for any situation; and to all those who took the time to read my early drafts – your patience with my typos and enthusiasm for the story has helped more than you can ever know. If I have missed anyone, I sincerely apologise, I blame my small brain – you are allowed to punch me in the stomach, (Careful, I have abs of steel!)
To my real-time feedback friend Guida, for devouring the story as quickly as I could write it and everyone else who took the plunge: Vera, Lissa, Sean, Naari, Chris, Bethany, Jesse, Liena, Katie, Adam, Grace, Lyn, Alex, Sam, Chelsea, Nils, my much-loved late Uncle Joe (who said I had verbal diarrhoea), Kate, Hannah, Emilijo, Brendon, Christina, John, Bec, Ian, Miranda, Jed, Riley, Michelle, Brendan, Natalie – you live forever in our hearts, Dimi, Sam, Laura, Mel, Caz, Ken, and the others – you know who you are. (See how I covered that?)
Thanks to the genius of Paul Davies, and Mr Berto Einstein – you make me want to build a time machine. Thanks to the musical imagery of Chris DeBurgh, you inspire emotion onto my page. Thanks to Kenny Thompson for kind permission to reprint lyrics.
Finally, thank you, dear readers. I sincerely hope you enjoyed reading this tale as much as I enjoyed writing it. Tell me what you think! There’s many more to come …
Born in Yorkshire, England, Scott Baker moved with his parents and older brother to Australia at age three. He has built a career in the film and television industry, producing TV commercials, music videos, corporate videos and DVDs. Scott works as a freelance director and editor and specialises in Digital Video Technologies – he is one of Australia’s leading experts on Digital Video Applications on the Mac Platform, which has seen him work on everything from Dawson’s Creek to The Hobbit. He also writes magazine articles and reviews, consults to industry production companies on workflow and trouble-shooting issues and runs seminars and workshops. He has lectured at the Australian National University, and continues to be Apple’s ‘Master Instructor’ for film and TV applications in Australia. The Rule of Knowledge is his first published novel.
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