“Ahh, Dec?”
Decia was furiously typing away. “I’m working it on it.”
“Stop him.”
“Nearly there…” Decia pressed the final key of the sequence. The Guardian’s outstretched arm fell off at the shoulder as if an invisible blade sliced cleanly through. But the Guardian did not react to the dismembered limb, and despite Nina’s best efforts she was still being pulled towards the glass.
“Stop him …better. Do it do it do it…”
Decia again turned back to the computer and entered a complicated algorithm. Nina was inches away from being pulled into the laboratory by invisible hands. Marta and Sacro tried with all their might to pull her back to safety. This was not how anybody projected today’s experiment would go. Through the screams and pleas of her colleagues Decia pushed the final key and initiated the Guardian’s kill-switch. The hold over Nina was broken and Marta and Sacro flew backwards pulling her to safety. The Guardian’s expression quickly shifted from sinister to surprise before his body disassembled into billions of pieces. The nanotech had done its job, and everyone was safe. At least, the survivors were safe. The two rooms looked like they belonged on a horror movie set. An uncomfortable silence hung in the air--a precursor to a “I told you so!” that never came. Instead, Nina decided to try and make light of it. “I’m sure there’s a lot of blame to go around. But the earthquake?”
“And EMP?” asked Decia with unmistakeable annoyance.
Marta cut in with a pertinent question. “How many of these things …clones do you want?” They saw her doing the math as she inspected the damage attendant on bringing a single spirit to Earth.
“Millions.”
Marta was convinced. She knew the scriptures. “This wasn’t a failure. This is how we end the world.”
Decia and Nina, still recovering from the shock of everything that had just happened, didn’t respond. Sacro did.
“This is how we save humanity, how we get to rebuild.”
CHAPTER II
Titus
33AD
The hammer fell. A spike through a hand. Then another through the other hand. Even though a crowd has formed, they have their heads turned away.
No, they are looking for something. Waiting for someone. How did we end up here? The hammer fell. The feet.
Damn.
Raised up and splayed out on display. Two thieves, who up until two nights ago were the Church of Light’s greatest living assets. Titus and Dumachus, brothers not by blood but by bond, now nailed to the cross. Years prior the Elders gave them refuge and took them in. Trained them to have worth. Gave them a purpose, but demanded unwavering loyalty. To the end.
Two nights ago
You run if you’re guilty… Or away from danger, like from a fire or a predator. We look guilty… Technically we are guilty… Maybe we should be walking… I guess we’re nearly there… Titus would spend a lot of time in his own head. Even while on the job. Dumachus however was focused, alert. One-track minded. Somewhere between predictable and reliable. He was running and his only thoughts were to complete the mission. His blood was pumping and senses heightened, he wasn’t stopping till he was safe indoors. Titus just had to keep up.
This was not the first mission those two had carried out. Members of an underground sect, unknown militants in a cause few know about. Acts of murder and thievery done in the name of a book few eyes have read.
A monk ushered them inside a small church and quickly shut the door behind them. They were safe, and with the weight of guilt lifted, Titus closed his eyes for a few seconds to focus on slowing his heartbeat. A sweet, gentle elder shuffled over to the two, reached out and placed his palms over their foreheads--a spiritual greeting, symbolic to their religion. Their breathing steadied and they stood up with straight backs. Titus pulled a tightly wound scroll out from a hidden satchel and placed it in the elder’s hand.
The Resurrection Scrolls. The moment the elder was handed the scrolls, two little monks scuttled out like scavengers and relieved him of the stolen goods, before they dashed back into the darkness once again.
The elder forced a reassuring smile, embraced the two and softly said, “We’re nearly out of time. What you have done tonight has ensured the future of our people and the fulfilment of all our prophecies.” He paused, mind busy in contemplation before he continued. “If you knew what I knew, you would know there was no other way. Thank you brothers. One day the whole world will thank you.” When he pulled away the jingling sound of a coin purse could be heard from beneath his robe. The two have been conditioned for decades to never question the Elder, so they failed even to register the out of place noise.
The door was kicked in by several sizeable and well-armed centurions. Before the two thieves had an opportunity to react they were knocked out by the swing of a very large shield. Their bodies were dragged away and silver is exchanged.
They awoke in time for beatings and humiliations. Something to pass the time before the crucifixion.
33AD
The hours passed. Maybe it was minutes. It was hard to tell. Breathing was difficult, and to do so put pressure on the spikes in their hands and feet. Dumachus occasionally lobbed insults to the guards and crowd like an inarticulate drunkard. He had embraced his death and was enjoying it. Titus was still wandering around inside his mind.
They knew we’re thieves. Did we fail? Was this for nothing? Even in torture Titus inner-monologues. How could they have found us? A murmur fell over the crowd and interrupted his thought pattern. As he re-joined the land of consciousness he zeroed in on what people are saying.
A king? Something about the messiah? When he saw Jesus dragging his cross up to the mound, things for Titus began to make more sense.
What’s the odds, dying next to a demigod?
“We’re nearly out of time.” Titus accidently said aloud.
“Normally I’d say, ‘we can make it. Just hang in there, hold on a little while longer’.” Dumachus’s joke missed its target as Titus was preoccupied riding his train of thought.
The Resurrection Scrolls, the centurions, the purse of silver, the timing…
“What?” Dumachus snapped him out of it.
Was I talking aloud?
“You were talking aloud.”
“I was just…”
“Stop it. This line of thinking isn’t going to help you or give you peace.”
We weren’t caught, we were betrayed. Oh no, the feet… The hammer fell. The Nazarene screamed. Dumachus joined the crowd in mocking Jesus. Titus couldn’t stand it anymore.
“What the fuck are you doing? We’re up here too, and guilty of a lot more than him.” Between lifelong friends, saying that would hardly have been the worst thing one has said, but it was the last civil interaction between the two for the remainder of the crucifixion.
Throughout the day and to the falling sun, the two thieves suffered the sins of man alongside the Son of God. Dumachus mocked Jesus, while Titus asked for mercy. One destined for Heaven, the other for Hell. Dumachus began tearing through the nails in his hands like a man possessed. Hurling insults and spit, he directed his aggression towards his former partner. His brother, a traitor. Till the end.
Back in the church that was once their sanctuary, a group of robed monks were reciting from the recently stolen Resurrection Scrolls. The language was melodic and haunting. It resonated through the halls and took form, before it built and screamed for resolution.
Before the Sabbath fell, centurions finally ended the suffering of the two and broke their legs. The final swings of the hammer. Unable to support any of their weight, they slowly suffocated. The bodies died, but the betrayal felt by both festered before it all went black.
The melodic chant reached its conclusion. The scrolls were preserved and locked away. Only for two thousand and something years.
Hours before Present Day
Elder Sacro and Simon are safe in the observation wing looking into a large chamber. Two second-generation clones lie
on a large handcrafted wooden altar surrounded by candelabras. They are positioned with arms outstretched and legs together as though they are on the cross. No sign of life support system--the technology has improved over the years.
This is a big deal for Simon. The prophesied brothers. They’re here. Their faces have better defined features than the regular clones and are unique. Individuals. “Which one is which?” Sacro just shrugs his shoulders, deciding to let the boy experience a bit of uncertainty, expectation and surprise. Simon presses his face against the two-way mirror and covers his face with cupped hands to get a clearer view. “You would guess that Titus would be on the right, but he looks more like a Dumachus.” Simon pulls back from the glass and joins Sacro to watch prophecy unfold.
There are six other people moving about in the room; three technicians ready to implant and register the two, and three monks performing a ritual. One not enacted by the order for over two thousand years. The resolution to the melodic chant. The longest fermata in history.
Their recital of the words is beautiful and ancient. Their voices resonate in the room’s acoustics, melodious and deep, and like nothing Simon has ever heard before.
When the chant reaches its conclusion, Sacro turns to Simon and quietly says, “On the cross, the sins so great that even god had to hide his face. For a brief period, the world was unsupervised by the almighty, which is how we were able to achieve… this.”
The three monks take a few steps back as the two technicians implant the Atom Chips into the clones’ hands and foreheads. The large clone on the right blinks, a finger twitches. Both movements go unnoticed.
I’m still on the cross. The fight or flight response kicks into overdrive.
Am I alive? The body flexes. The mind flexes.
The technician approaching the clone on the right is about to scan his Atom Chip and register him into the system when a light draft breathes over him, giving him pause. Then from nowhere an invisible explosive force knocks all six men in the room back into the walls, leaving the clones unscathed.
Woah. All the candles are snuffed out in the outburst, leaving them in almost darkness. A warm inviting glow from the exit sign is all that lights the room now. Simon reassumes his position pressed up against the glass to see. No one is moving.
The clone opens his eyes and turns his head to the left. In the darkness he raises his hand. A dozen different senses are suddenly activated and he has immense trouble filtering the information.
What is this? The clone on the left has also awoken and both are slow to sit up. With no idea where they are, even who they are: it is... disorientating.
“What’s going on?” a foreign voice murmurs inside their ears. “Why are they awake?” To add to their confusion, more voices start swimming around in the unassimilated clones’ heads. Yelling something in ancient Aramaic, they begin to jerk and twitch and push each other off the altar, landing out of sight from the two observers. None of the other six people have regained consciousness.
This fuels Sacro’s concern that history is about to repeat itself. Simon is starting to lose his shroud of blind faith and is looking a little worried. Sacro does what he can to reassure the boy, and himself. “Two thousand years ago the elders performed a ritual that suspended their souls. Only minutes ago they were being crucified. Give them a minute to acclimate.”
One of the monks has come to and begins crawling towards the door, speaking under her breath into her radio, “Security, we need the Guardi…”
Sacro jumps on his radio cutting her off, “Belay that.”
Silence. Good. The clones start to calm down and move out from behind the massive altar. I’m in a large room with another person. I know him. Somehow. They both stand up carefully.
Feet. Damn. Things are starting to come back, just reflections of memories and habit. Distancing themselves from one another they begin to process their new instincts and take in the new environment. They inspect their bodies and experiment with their new powers by levitating broken candles and stands.
Telekinesis is natural? Obviously.
Simon is watching them with amazement, hypnotised by the floating debris. Sacro knows he has to act. If he loses the ability to control and suppress them, the consequences could be dire. They are the two most powerful entities on Earth.
“You are safe. You are home, brothers. Returned to our church, at last...”
Wait, what church? Returned from where?
“Two thousand years have passed since the day of your death, and every day we have worked towards this moment.”
The two clones begin to approach the two-way mirror very cautiously. “Where am I?” Titus asks.
“Our people migrated from the Arabian lands a long time ago and went as far south as the world would let them. You are in one of our now great cities.” The clones let it sink in for a moment, synapses firing with memories and familiarities. Simon starts to nudge towards the door. He can sense that something strong is brewing under the surface, but Sacro continues. “Place your right hand on the glass and all will be revealed.” Sacro has a scanner in each hand ready to register them. The old man came prepared. Resorting to an old yet effective trick in desperate times.
The clones are hesitant but approach the mirror with arms outstretched. Sacro is lining up the two scanners, salvation is but inches away and closing.
“Welcome back into the light, Titus and Dumachus.”
He couldn’t keep his mouth shut.
The hands stop centimetres from the pane. Epiphany. Self-realisation. Like a hit from your drug of choice. For both clones, every living memory, every emotion, every betrayal, restored.
I am Titus. Both he and Dumachus pull their hands away from the mirror and take pause. The memory of and leading up to their death flashes through their psyche for a moment. He turns to Dumachus who is firing daggers back at him.
“TRAITOR!” screams Dumachus.
Boom. Bodies are flying all over the room. All except Dumachus. It was his turn to flex his strength. This defence mechanism when triggered is powerful and anyone near ground zero--in this case him--is in real danger. The mirror shatters completely and Sacro and Simon are thrown back, landing hard against the rear wall. Both are covered in glass, and sport many cuts. All of which begin to heal immediately. If Dumachus is surprised by the alcove and audience he has revealed, he doesn't show it. His focus is on Titus. One-track minded.
Simon is now experiencing uncertainty, surprise and expectation. “We need Guardians, now.”
There was the rub. This room housed the only second-generation clones and there was to be no chance a wandering demonic spirit could accidentally or intentionally possess the next-life bodies intended for the brothers. “They can’t enter. This room has been blessed.”
Titus is back against the far wall, slowly getting to his feet. Dumachus is fuming. “You left me on that cross to die alone! For that [*]Rēx Iūdaeōrum. I’ve been at your side as long as I can remember. We were brothers!” He attempts to use his power again on Titus but Titus defends himself with an equal and opposite wave of energy, leaving him untouched. Feels he is getting the knack of it now.
“We were both betrayed! This was all orchestrated.”
“So? The prophecy was true. The resurrection of the brothers…”
“This wasn’t divine intervention. It was an act of man.”
Sacro gets to his feet and steps over the glass into the chamber. “An act of God working through the hands of man, just as he did through yours all those years ago, is still an act of God.”
“Men like you took us off the street when we were just kids. Conditioned us to fight, steal, kill, and most importantly, obey. Then when we steal the item you trained us all those years to do, you pay for our torture and execution and use us in the fabrication of your ‘miracle’.” Titus feels better about getting off that his chest. He’d been hanging onto it for two thousand years.
“I cannot speak for those in the robe before me, but tim
es have changed, as has the Church.” Sacro kneels before Titus in the customary way, waiting for Titus to place his palm over his forehead. “The world is on a precipice. You must help save it. Look for yourself.”
Titus has a natural inclination to place his palm on the old man’s head and read his thoughts. Before he had time to question how or what he is doing, his palm is on the Sacro’s forehead and he was already in.
Inside the mind of an enemy.
A strange sensation, as though time is standing still.
No, just moving very slowly. Titus is staring into the eyes of Sacro; a man with an incredible poker face. The world is on a precipice. Images flash up in his mind’s eye. A slide show courtesy of Sacro, presenting the destructive nature of humanity; the exponential rate of human consumption, the devastation of ecosystems, the potential for mutually assured destruction. Images that are troubling to an audience with an already exceptionally high tolerance. For a man from the first century the scale was beyond his capacity to process. He decides to pry into this stranger’s mind a little deeper.
Images and memories of people surface first, images connected with different emotional reactions. Technology and machines, huge factory lines, industrial sized complexes, nothing Titus recognises until he finds the memory of a warehouse. Millions of clones in suspended animation await possession. An army.
Why does the Church need an army? The last thing he sees before Sacro breaks the connection is a large cylindrical quantum computer eight-foot high and four-feet in diameter.
Sacro has pulled away and for a moment Titus can still hear the faint echoes transmitting from Sacro’s thoughts before they’re silenced.
Did he do that?
The elder stands to his feet, turning his body towards the entrance. “Just come with me. See for yourselves. We need both of you, and whatever debt you think is owed will be satisfied.”
Dumachus is feeling a little left out of the conversation so he decides to bring it back to his point of contention. “Why would you want a traitor? Don’t you know? He’s a follower of Christ now.”
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