The Christ Clone Trilogy - Book Three: ACTS OF GOD (Revised & Expanded)

by James Beauseigneur

  Suddenly, the folder flew back to Debbie Sanchez, who seemed to understand the power and showed relative comfort in its exercise. “Thank you for the demonstration,” she said as she set the folder back down on the lectern and held it there with her hand.

  The room exploded with questions, but before any could be answered other reporters began to experiment on their own, raising chairs off the ground, holding microphones suspended, one raising himself several feet into the air.

  “I wouldn’t try that just yet,” Debbie Sanchez said to the airborne journalist. “You’ll wind up with a whopper of a headache if you’re not careful.”

  “How long will this last?” a reporter shouted, not taking Christopher’s written statement at face value.

  “As the secretary general’s statement said,” Sanchez answered, “it’s permanent.”

  “And the power will grow stronger with time?”

  “Yes, as you learn to use the power, it will increase. But you must use it responsibly, with forethought, not haphazardly.”

  “Is this the power that will be used to defeat the KDP at Petra?”

  “Yes,” Debbie Sanchez answered.[173]

  Chapter 19

  If Thy Right Hand Offend Thee

  Thursday, August 27, 4 N.A.

  Petra

  For three days Chaim Levin, the high priest of Israel, had not eaten or drunk anything. Nor had he spoken. That in itself wasn’t unusual for a rabbi seeking to know God’s will, and so he was left alone to meditate and pray. Even his wife, Rose, didn’t disturb him.

  No one wondered what he prayed about. They were as aware as he of what was happening in the world outside Petra; no one with a radio or access to the internet could have missed it. The signs promised by Christopher were coming to pass, and very soon the armies of the world would assemble to march on this place of God’s provision. Levin’s followers in Petra wanted to know God’s answer as much as the high priest did.

  On the third day at about noon, Chaim Levin rose to his feet, broke his fast, and bathed. He then called for Samuel Newberg, his assistant and confidant. Newberg was already waiting, having been notified by one of the common priests that Levin had ended his fast.

  “Sam, I want to speak to the leader of the KDP,” he said straight away.

  Newberg looked confused. “Rabbi, I . . . uh . . . I don’t think . . .”

  Chaim Levin nodded reassuringly; he knew his request might be a bit surprising. “It’s all right, Sam, just bring him to me.” Noticing the expression on Newberg’s face, a thought occurred to him. “Unless you don’t think he’ll come.”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s just that, well . . . I don’t think they have a leader.”

  This was a possibility that Levin hadn’t considered. He frowned, struck by how little he really knew about the other residents of Petra. Still, he wanted to talk with someone who could speak for the KDP and on their behalf. “Is there no one who is pre-eminent among them?” he asked.

  “Not since the deaths of John and Saul Cohen,” Newberg answered. The high priest looked perplexed, and Newberg blurted out the only suggestion he could think of. “I have heard that Cohen had a son,” he said, immediately regretting the suggestion as he realized he had no idea how to contact Cohen’s son.

  The high priest stroked his beard as he quickly pondered the option. The idea had merit. “I would like to speak with him,” he said.

  Jerusalem

  The Resistance in Jerusalem existed for one purpose only: to assist those who wanted to flee to Petra. As such their usefulness was nearly spent. It had been a month since anyone from outside the country had come through Israel on their way to Petra. Only a few in Israel did not bear Christopher’s mark, and most of them were part of the Resistance. With their work completed, the leaders of the Resistance gathered at an abandoned kibbutz outside Jerusalem to plan their own escape to Petra. There to meet with them was Benjamin Cohen, son of Saul Cohen, and a member of the KDP. When the meeting concluded, Cohen’s long-time friend, Jim Carp, asked Cohen to wait. When everyone else had gone, Carp said he had someone he wanted Cohen to meet.

  “Who is it?” Cohen asked.

  “My sister, Gabrielle,” Carp answered.

  Cohen smiled in surprise. “As long as I’ve known you, I didn’t even know you had a sister. Has she just arrived in Israel?”

  “No,” Carp answered. His voice revealed discomfort. “She’s been in Jerusalem for several years.”

  “Why have I never met her?”

  “Well, it’s possible you have. Actually, she changed her last name when she first came to Israel.”

  “Really?” Cohen began, but before he could finish, Carp’s guest came in.

  Cohen was stunned. He looked back and forth between Carp and the woman. It seemed beyond belief, but before him stood Gabrielle Ben-Judah, Prime Minister of Israel, a woman who had served for the last three and a half years as a puppet of the UN occupation government, a woman who on every occasion had served as Christopher’s pawn in the region. “You have betrayed us,” Cohen told Carp.

  “No,” Carp insisted.

  “Your sister is Gabrielle Ben-Judah?” Cohen exclaimed incredulously. The resemblance was less than obvious.

  “She’s changed her mind!” Carp said. “She realizes she’s been wrong.” Somehow talking about Ben-Judah in the third person, as though she weren’t there with them, made the conversation at least a little more endurable.

  “She’s changed her mind?” Cohen repeated, spitting out Carp’s words as if they were some vile poison. “She’s changed her mind?!” The idea was preposterous.

  “Yes, Mr. Cohen,” Ben-Judah said, finally joining the conversation, “I have. I realize that I’ve been wrong, as do many of the people of Jerusalem.”[174]

  “Well, that’s all very nice,” Cohen said contemptuously. “But I’m afraid you’re a little too late.” Cohen cast his eyes toward Ben-Judah’s right hand and Christopher’s number, which marked it. “You made your choice! You could have resisted. You could have left with those who went to Petra. You could have gone into hiding like your brother.” Cohen looked back at Jim Carp, still in disbelief that the two were related. “But you chose to go along with Christopher Goodman. Even after he defiled the Temple and destroyed the tablets of the law; even when he set up his image on the wall of the Temple, which was clearly the abomination that the prophet Daniel warned about;[175] still you went along! You even turned against your own people, betraying them to UN executioners if they refused to worship the image.[176] How many have died because of you?”

  Gabrielle Ben-Judah sighed and clenched her teeth. She didn’t answer the question. It didn’t need an answer. Even one death was too many, and in truth she didn’t know the number. “All that you have said is true,” she acknowledged. “I’ve done all these things, and I realize it’s probably too late for me. But the others—”

  “You heard the angel’s warning,” Cohen said.[177] “They all heard it: Anyone who receives the mark will drink of the wine of God’s fury and will be tormented with burning sulfur forever. There will be no rest for those who worship the beast and his image, or for anyone who receives the mark of his name,” he said, paraphrasing the angel’s words.

  “But there must be something that can be done,” she appealed. “Most of these people never really rebelled against God. They took the mark only because if they hadn’t, they would have lost everything.”

  “And so they have,” Cohen shot back. “So they have. They traded away their birthright as God’s chosen people for the sake of their possessions, just as Esau traded his birthright to Jacob for a little food.”[178]

  Cohen’s response was not unexpected, but that made it no less difficult for Ben-Judah to bear. “Please, there must be something.”

  “Even if I wanted to help you, there’s nothing I can do. You’ve taken the mark and bowed down to the image. As the angel warned, you’ll drink of the wine of God’s fury. There’s nothing in
what the angel said, or anywhere in the Bible, to suggest that you can now change your mind. Just as Esau could not regain his birthright, neither can you or the others that you represent.”

  “But will you not at least pray for us?” she pleaded.

  “I cannot pray for the enemies of God,” Cohen responded.

  “But we do not wish to be his enemies.”

  There was sincerity in Ben-Judah’s voice and in her eyes. For a long moment Cohen silently studied her face. “No,” he said finally.

  “I beg you to at least pray and ask God if there is anything that can be done.”

  “I’m sorry,” Cohen answered, his voice now showing at least a hint of regret mingled with his loathing.

  “But there must be something.”

  “There isn’t.” His words had been final, but then something occurred to him. It startled him and it was obvious to the others in the room.

  “What?” asked Jim Carp.

  Benjamin Cohen shook his head, dumbfounded. It was absurd, he thought. But then, with God, perhaps it was not.

  “Please, what is it?” Ben-Judah urged.

  Cohen wasn’t ready to answer, but he made an attempt to explain. “I don’t know if this is from God or if it’s only a random thought that has passed through my mind.”

  “Please, tell us.”

  “No,” Cohen answered. “But I will pray about this.”

  “May I wait while you pray?” Ben-Judah asked.

  “If you wish. But I don’t know how long it will be.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  Jim Carp showed Benjamin Cohen to a room where he wouldn’t be interrupted, and then returned to wait with his sister.

  Two hours passed before Cohen returned. His expression gave no hint that God had provided him an answer. Ben-Judah didn’t ask; she was afraid of what Cohen’s response would be. Nevertheless, the question was obvious on her face.

  Cohen shook his head. “God has not chosen to answer me,” he said finally. “I still do not know if this is from God or from my own imagination, and he has not seen fit to reveal it to me.”

  “Please tell me,” Ben-Judah asked.

  “I don’t think you’ll like the answer.”

  Ben-Judah waited silently.

  “You must understand,” Cohen advised, “that what I say is not by God’s command, but by his permission. It may not be from God at all; it may be just my own wishful thinking.”[179]

  “I understand.”

  “And you must also understand,” Cohen continued, “if you and those you represent choose to accept what I’m about to tell you, and if you’re spared, it’s not your action that’s saved you. God’s forgiveness cannot be earned or bought, lest anyone should be able to boast.[180] God’s forgiveness has been purchased at the price of his son’s own life. If you do what I’m about to suggest, it’s not your deed that will save you, rather it’s because he has already saved you, that you’ll do this. Still, I don’t know how it’s possible that you, bearing the mark, could be saved.”[181]

  “God showed his love for us in this,” Gabrielle Ben-Judah said, paraphrasing from the fifth chapter of the book of Romans, “that while we were still sinners, Messiah died for us.”[182]

  Cohen studied Ben-Judah, amazed that she could cite the Bible at all, much less find an appropriate verse from the New Testament. “Perhaps then you also know the verse in Matthew,” Cohen replied, “‘If thy right hand offend thee, cut it off.’”[183]

  Chapter 20

  The Demonstration

  Friday, August 28, 4 N.A.

  Farnborough, England

  “Everybody up!”

  Ian Wilder shielded his eyes from the bright barracks light and quickly got out of bed so as to not risk the wrath of the guards.

  “Up!” the guard growled again, as he stomped toward one of the bunks whose occupant was known to be a very sound sleeper.

  Ian was already half dressed.

  The guard stopped beside the bunk of the sleeping man and smiled down sadistically. Then grabbing the edge of the bed, he threw it over, toppling both upper and lower bunks and the man to the floor. Having witnessed this event several times before, the woman from the upper bunk had moved well out of the way as soon as the guard approached.

  It was still dark outside, without even a hint of dawn. Ian could only guess at the time. No one in the barracks had a watch. Every bit of their personal property had been confiscated when they were arrested. All that most of them had was one change of clothes and the four books on the New Age. Their only currency was the sexual favors they might do for the guards, for which they would be given some extra portion of food or a piece of soap or some bit of information or rumor from the outside.

  Perhaps they were finally leaving, Ian thought.

  The guard quickly confirmed his assumption. “Everybody get your stuff,” he said as he headed for the door. “The trucks’ll be here to take you home in fifteen minutes.”

  A cheer went up from the whole barracks and people started shaking each others’ hands and slapping each other on the back. Ian Wilder slipped through the celebratory crowd and made his way to the latrine.

  With only one brief stop for gas, the truck had been on the road for six hours, including passing through the Chunnel. None of the more than one hundred men and women crammed into the back of the truck had any idea where they were or where they were going, but it was soon obvious that they were not, as the guard had told them, going home. There were no windows, and air was circulated through a beveled system that let in no light. The only illumination came from two fixtures in the ceiling. A third light had gone out when they hit a bump shortly after leaving the camp. The only facilities were crude toilets placed at each end, which quickly exceeded their capacity.

  They had no breakfast before they left, but despite his hunger and the smell and the crowded conditions, Ian felt himself drifting off to sleep. When he awoke, he had no idea whether it had been hours or only minutes. Apparently they had reached their destination, for the truck had stopped and from his position near the door he could hear voices outside and the sound of the door being unlatched.

  “Everyone out!” a very masculine woman’s voice called in a French accent.

  Ian was one of the first off the truck. He looked around as he got out but was unable to determine their location. Something about the place looked or perhaps felt like the region around Dijon and Mulhouse near the French border with Switzerland and Germany, though he couldn’t have said why he thought so. Wherever they were, they were definitely on another military facility, though this one was far more modern than the one they had left in England.

  Ian and the others were herded around to the front of the truck and told to make two lines. As the fresh air filled his lungs, the pungent smell of human sweat and unbathed bodies was replaced by the delightful aroma of food cooking. Directly in front of him was a building from which the flavorful smells came. It was, he hoped, their goal — a mess hall.

  Being one of the first in line, Ian was able to load his plate high and he eagerly ate everything. Quiet conversation was permitted but other than questions and guesses about where they were and where they were going, no one seemed to have much to say. This wasn’t unusual. Over the past several weeks in the barracks no one had talked much. A few had spoken of their hatred for those who had betrayed them: friends, neighbors, relatives. But no one spoke of what they had seen — the horror of the executions — though frequent screams and crying in the night suggested that all had been witness to similar events. And no one ever talked about the ones they had left behind — husbands, wives, children — when at the last moment, they like Ian, had accepted the communion rather than accompany their loved ones in death.

  As Ian drank down the last of a glass of milk, he felt a firm tap of a rifle butt on his back. Looking around, the guard motioned toward the building’s back door, and then moved on, repeating the silent procedure as others finished their meals. Ian followed the
guard’s direction and was taken outside to a fenced yard and allowed to walk around until about twenty others joined him. The guards then led the group through a gate and around to the front of the building where the truck still sat. They didn’t stop at the truck, however, but continued down the road and toward a cluster of buildings about a quarter-mile away, which Ian guessed was their destination. He was wrong.

  Continuing past the buildings, they came to a parade ground on which perhaps two or three thousand French troops stood silently in formation. Considering all he had been through, Ian knew that any fate was possible here. He was relieved, therefore, to see that the soldiers appeared to be unarmed and that there were no guillotines in sight. Even so, the situation didn’t appear hopeful.

  In the center of the parade ground stood a reviewing stand to which the soldiers’ attention seemed directed, and toward which Ian and the others were being taken. His heart sank as he realized what was happening. He didn’t know the specifics, but there was little doubt that they had been brought here to serve as some sort of spectacle. He wanted to run but there was nowhere to go. They were led onto the reviewing stand and directed toward a row of chairs. This seemed a rather congenial offer and Ian again wondered if his fear had been unfounded. After all, they had been provided with a good meal — the best he had had in months — and he was now certain the troops weren’t armed.

  Suddenly there was a commotion to Ian’s left.

  “Viva la France!” someone shouted. It was one of Ian’s companions. “Viva la Nouveau Époque! Viva la Christopher!” the man added. Apparently he had the same fears as Ian and hoped his display might ingratiate him to his captors. The idea must have seemed like a good one to some of the others because presently half a dozen stood and repeated the chant. Others joined in. Not wanting to be left out, Ian was about to do the same, but as he scanned the faces of the soldiers he saw no sign that the display was having the desired effect. There were a number of smiles, but they were not smiles of camaraderie but rather of disdain and amusement. Ian held his seat.