The Prophet: Resurrection: A Sci-Fi Thriller

by David Beers

  Yule wanted to smile again at Trinant’s snub, but he kept the Devil in him down—always trying to tempt him.

  “Now, First Priest,” Trinant said. “Can you tell us what you saw at this point, when the energy flowed back to the girl?”

  Like Yule, the First Priest could barely hold his emotion in check—some was even escaping out across his face. The emotions were different for the two men, though … one being humored, the other angered.

  “I was unable to move, and was facing the opposite way, so no, I can’t explain to you what happened.”

  Trinant nodded, not smiling, though Yule thought she wanted to. The First Priest should never have interrupted her, and Yule believed he might regret it for however long he served as the True Faith’s new Minister.

  “And now we get to what I said before. The energy winked out of existence. It all collided on a point, and then simply disappeared.”

  “Physically, that’s not possible,” Benten said. “Energy can’t be destroyed.”

  “We don’t know that it was destroyed,” Trinant said. “We only know that it isn’t here anymore.”

  Yule was careful to say nothing. He didn’t want to give anyone in this room more reason to think Nicki might still be alive. He, of course, had no idea—but if she was, if her energy had been transferred and she still lived, the people here would want her for very different reasons than he.

  The room was quiet for a second, and then Trinant spoke again. Yule was coming to see that the balance of power was shifting between the four. Before, the True Faith had held the most weight, but it seemed Trinant was taking that place—giving the One Path more importance. Yule didn’t care about such things, so long as the Old World remained in peace. He didn’t need to direct other Ministries, nor appear to.

  “The One Path has made an agreement with the True Faith. We’re going to try their former High Priest under our laws. They have already begun the evacuation of our territory, and no one else will face prosecution. I’d like to ask the rest of you about the future.”

  She paused for a second, and Yule saw weariness almost take hold. The woman was tired; these were the leaders of the world, but Yule understood they were all growing exhausted.

  “The One Path would like to move forward and put the Black behind us. We want to continue eradicating the Black’s followers, just as we had planned before. The True Faith has agreed to share with us all information received from their prisoners. We’ll work to ensure that the Black doesn’t return, but regarding this unfortunate mess with the Old World’s parishioner … the One Path would just like to move on.”

  That was exactly what Yule wanted from the other three Ministries as well. Just move on from Nicki Sesam. If she was alive—something Yule highly doubted—he would do his best to find her, but he wanted nothing from these people in regards to that.

  “The Constant agrees,” Benten said, “so long as we’re given regular reports from the True Faith’s prisoners.”

  Trinant looked to Yule, not bothering to seek confirmation from the First Priest.

  The Pope nodded. “The Old World is in agreement.”

  The office door opened, a massive thing as tall as the windows to Yule’s right. He looked over and another of Trinant’s young aides walked in. Yule turned to Trinant, watching her face as the woman approached. Interrupting a meeting such as this … it had to be something important.

  The aide leaned into Trinant and whispered in her ear, too low for the Pope to hear.

  He watched the Minister’s eyes widen, and Yule’s stomach dropped. Trinant was a strong enough leader to keep from showing emotion, especially with mixed company. The slight slip here told him that whatever she was hearing, it wasn’t good.

  The aide stepped back, looking at the floor.

  Trinant was quiet for a second, sitting behind her desk and staring at her hands.

  “Tell them,” she said to the aide.

  “We’re under attack,” the young woman said.

  “What?” the First asked. “What are you talking about?”

  “The three lower levels have been taken. We’ve managed to shut them off.”

  “How?” Trinant asked, her voice low, but the anger in it intense. “How did this happen?”

  “I … I’m not sure, Your Grace. We didn’t know for sure until ten minutes ago.”

  “Who is it?” Trinant asked.

  “We think, Your Grace. That it’s the Black. Its followers.”

  Tidus

  Tidus had been the first person to participate in the Summoning. The Prophet’s blood somehow affecting him more quickly, though others joined rapidly.

  The past month or so had been a lot for Tidus to handle. He’d been a young man when the Summoning started—still in school and with no real life experiences. A month later and he was steel. A leader. A murderer. He had made his father proud during the Summoning, and had personally killed upwards of 30 people before finally being pulled out of hand-to-hand combat.

  Those in charge of the One Path’s Summoning thought Tidus had skills that could be better utilized from a strategic viewpoint. He was smart, not simply a grunt, and so he’d been shifted quickly up the ranks.

  Tidus’s father wasn’t so lucky. The man had been pushed off of a building and fallen miles to the ocean below.

  During the Summoning, Tidus hadn’t taken time to really process it—that his father was dead. He’d been consumed with …

  And now, looking back, it felt so strange to say it. He’d been consumed with killing. His father’s death hadn’t mattered, not in any real sense of the word. It was cursory, something on the periphery.

  And then the Prophet died, and the Summoning ended. Tidus was captured without even fighting. The people around him, those that had witnessed him in action over the past week or more, were shocked. He of all people would have fought the Ministry. Yet he didn’t. When they showed up to where he was hiding, he got on his knees, then lay down on the floor, spreading his arms and legs far to show that he held nothing to threaten them with.

  The Prophet’s death extinguished something inside Tidus, and he went like a lamb to his own slaughter.

  Everyone in the One Path knew of the pits; parents used them to frighten children whenever they were misbehaving.

  “You better stop, or I’ll send you to the pits.”

  “The police will come and put you in the pits.”

  The police did come for Tidus, and they did put him in the pits—where he would wait an indeterminate amount of time before he was either killed or given trial. He didn’t know which. He imagined they would simply kill him. Him and everyone like him that they could find—all of the Prophet’s followers.

  Tidus had heard there were different types of pits. Those for common criminals and then those for ‘special’ criminals. They took Tidus to a pit for the commoners. He flew in a large transport, his hands and legs bound. He sat shoulder to shoulder with others that carried the Blood—though Tidus knew that didn’t matter anymore. When the Prophet died, his Blood stopped being important.

  The transport slowed down before coming to a complete standstill. There must have been a hundred people in that ship, plus the guards. The prisoners all sat against the walls, and the guards stood on platforms a bit further up, weapons pointing down at their captives.

  Tidus hadn’t known what to expect, but he had ceased caring. The Prophet’s death, it had ended something inside him. His ability to give a damn about anything, apparently.

  The ship’s floor turned transparent, and Tidus looked down at the pit.

  A black liquid that gave off a golden shine, almost as if lights were inside it. Tidus looked across the entire structure, a mile long, and holding just that black liquid. Only sky beneath and to the sides? More pits. Tidus couldn’t see if transports floated over them or not, but this would be his new home—that dark, life sustaining liquid.

  Life sustaining. It’ll sustain your life, if life could be considered never mov
ing or speaking again.

  Tidus had been on the verge of another thought, but the bottom of the transport disappeared, and the seats the prisoners sat on tilted forward.

  He spilled out of the ship, his hands and feet suddenly unbound. He watched the liquid grow closer and closer, screaming as he fell through the air. Wind whipped by him, but not strong enough to carry him away from his fate. He looked to his left and right and saw everyone falling with him, and further out, he saw thousands more. Every pit being filled.

  He hit the liquid with a splat, his body slowing, but also sinking.

  Tidus tried to breathe, but sucked in only thick liquid. He tried forcing it out, but it pushed deeper into his throat and then gullet, until finally it passed into his stomach. It filled his nose and ears, washed over his eyes. He panicked immediately, his brain desperately searching for air, but the cool liquid somehow delivered it to him.

  He didn’t suffocate.

  Tidus sank deeper and deeper, terror gripping him as he realized what this meant. Forever trapped and unmoving.

  And then, he stopped sinking.

  Time passed and Tidus attempted counting the days. One. Two. Three. They kept going and he kept floating there, still and silent, his thoughts occupying his time. A strange madness crept in around day four, in which Tidus began contemplating how he might kill himself. Madness because it was an impossibility. He couldn’t move—this was quicksand without death. No escape.

  More days upon days, and Tidus’s madness grew, as much as he tried to tame it. He could see the others in here with him, all frozen in different positions, some with their eyes open, some closed.

  Are they losing their minds too? he thought with a weird laughter echoing in his head.

  Because that was funny. A tub full of people going crazy.

  He lost count of the days, but two very strange things happened. First, he saw a gray static—the Prophet’s gray, actually. It rushed through the pit, changing the black and golden liquid to gray. Tidus thought he was imagining it; that was the only logical conclusion. Just another snap in his breaking mind.

  He giggled inside himself.

  The gray light eventually left and Tidus thought no more about it.

  He wasn’t sure about time anymore, but he didn’t think a day passed before the next strange thing occurred.

  His blood started itching. Again, he thought he was imagining it … but this was different than the gray light. He could deny that occurred, the itch beneath his skin, though—it wasn’t going anywhere. If anything, its intensity was growing.

  Tidus tried to look around at the others in the pit, but he could tell nothing of their mental state.

  He saw his own arms, though, and Tidus knew he’d gone completely mad then. Gray strands were wrapping up his arms, with tails floating lazily in the golden black liquid like tentacles.

  Another giggle from Tidus.

  Rise.

  His mind hadn’t said the word, but it was there all the same, as if someone was speaking inside his head.

  I can’t, he said.

  Rise, it told him again.

  He watched the gray strands stretch upward, and after a second, their slack ended and they were pulling Tidus up through the liquid.

  He couldn’t have remained inside the pit if he wanted.

  The strands continued, reaching the top and then thrusting Tidus through it as well. Golden black liquid dripped down his face as the static strands pulled him to the edge of the pit. He grabbed hold of the barrier that held the liquid inside and vomited. Unable to catch his breath, he did it again. Black mucus streamed from his nose as his body ejected the liquid from his lungs.

  He wiped at his eyes, his arms able to move though the rest of his body was still held firm beneath the surface. No matter how much he tried cleaning himself, Tidus still felt the slick liquid covering him.

  He finally stopped, though, and looked at his arms. The strands had climbed up his shoulders, shining in the night’s darkness around him. He stared down into the pit and saw similar static draped across others’ arms. They lit up the golden liquid like gray lights, each arm a beacon.

  The Globe of One, the voice said. Go to it. The Ministers are there. They are not to leave.

  Tidus looked up into the black sky, his blood almost burning and the Prophet’s words echoing in his head. He laughed and laughed and laughed.

  Five

  Yule stood and walked to the windows lining Trinant’s office.

  “They’re confined below, in the lower levels?” he asked.

  “Yes,” the general said. The aide had left 10 minutes ago and this woman had returned in her stead. Older, thin, and sounding like any general the Pope had ever met. General Spyden.

  “How secure is it?” the First Priest asked. “How secure are we?”

  Yule heard the panic in the man’s voice but didn’t turn around to assess him. The True Faith’s new Minister had been through a lot over the past couple of days, Yule had no doubt of that, but he sounded more frayed than anyone else. Everyone was frightened, including the Pope, but the First sounded near panic.

  Trinant ignored him, and so did the general.

  “Show me what they’ve done so far,” she said.

  “Yes, Your Grace.” The windows in front of Yule suddenly changed from a view of the outside world to a vast display. Yule stepped back, taking in the scene.

  “The panels are divided up into four quadrants, though what you’ll see on them is very similar in nature. If it’s okay, Your Grace, I’ll speed up the videos.”

  “Yes,” Yule heard Trinant say, though he didn’t take his eyes from the scene in front of him.

  He focused on the middle-left glass pane, watching as the general spoke. She was giving this report to Trinant, though a single question flashed through Yule’s head: why aren’t we evacuating?

  “They reached our bottom docking stations approximately an hour ago. We are still unsure how the transports were commandeered, but they kept some of the crew alive in order to pass security checks. Once docked, they rapidly moved upward, making it through three levels before any sort of alarm was sounded.”

  “WHY DIDN’T WE HEAR AN ALARM?” the First Priest shouted.

  “The Globe of One is 600 stories high. You are on number 590.. It wasn’t necessary to sound alarms this high up.”

  Yule turned and looked at the First Priest. The man collapsed into a chair and let out a sigh—the distance between them and the attackers apparently all he cared about.

  The Pope watched the window again, feeling none of the First Priest’s new found peace.

  Because what he now saw …

  “This has never happened before,” he said.

  Men and women were walking up and down halls, gray static draping their arms.

  The screens in front of him were showing everything in double time, but the men and women were slinging the static at the One Path’s faithful. Wherever the strands touched, clothing and flesh burnt off. Yule watched as people screamed, their horror thankfully silent in Trinant’s office. People were collapsing everywhere across the massive displays, holding their blood drenched faces and throats.

  That wasn’t the worst of it, though. Somehow, the death he watched was only part of it.

  “They’re insane,” he heard Benten say as if the man was inside his own head. “Look at their faces. They’re all insane.”

  The invaders moved rapidly across the glass panels, using strands, hands, and even blades to kill those in front of them.

  “What is this?” the First Priest asked, finally coming to see what Yule did. “What in Corinth’s name is all of this?”

  Yule turned around and looked at General Spyden.

  “We haven’t seen anything like that before. I understand they’re a long way from us, but why haven’t we evacuated yet? Why are we still here?”

  The general swallowed, the first sign of doubt she’d shown. She turned to Trinant before speaking. “Your Grace, we
can’t leave.”

  Six

  David stared up into the sky and watched the transport. It was approaching the beach quickly. He hadn’t communicated with Rhett since saving him inside the True Faith. David was stretching himself thin now, especially with what was happening at the Globe. He couldn’t spare any more of himself to Rhett, not right now.

  Right before he returned—when deep in the ocean—David had made a choice, and now he was dealing with the consequence. He had expected this, though it was different to live with something rather than anticipating it.

  He also had to determine how much to tell Rhett and Christine.

  Think about it later, he told himself. Now you deal with Rebecca.

  The transport had arrived and was above David. He moved backward as it slowly descended. Its turbines pushed air at him, blowing sand across the beach. He shielded his eyes with his hands, though he could have used the gray if he’d wanted—but such frivolous usage couldn’t happen right now. Maybe not ever again.

  The transport finally landed and the blowing wind and sand ended.

  David looked inside. He saw four people. He could see Rhett’s face, and two others in the front. He thought he recognized the woman …

  She was at the compound when they attacked. You spared her. Only her.

  He looked away, toward the rear. Rebecca. He only saw the back of her head; she hadn’t turned around to look at him.

  The door on Rhett’s side opened and he stepped out. He walked around the front and then simply stopped and stared. Another door opened and a man David didn’t recognize stepped out. He went to Rhett, then stopped too. David sensed his Blood in the man, but he didn’t gaze at him. He only looked at Rhett.

  There were tears in his old friend’s eyes.

  “It’s real?” Rhett said. “You’re real?”