The Prophet: Life: A Sci-Fi Thriller

by David Beers

  How many more people did he have than Veritros did? Ten times as many? Twenty? The multiplier was high, and the only saving grace the traitor found amidst this bloody haze was that David’s hand had been forced. He hadn’t had time to prepare.

  The compound was empty, and now the traitor had choices to make. Give up or finish what they’d set out to do.

  If you give up, that’s it. There’s no one else that is going to do this. You’ve got to stem the tide, because the Unformed grows smarter each time It comes. If you don’t stop David, who will?

  David didn’t know who the traitor was yet, at least they didn’t think so. The steps they’d taken to mask themselves hadn’t completely worn off, and with everything happening, David simply wasn’t able to focus on finding them. So for the time being, they were safe, and that meant they had to work hard and fast while he was distracted.

  Maybe the world does burn, but that doesn’t mean he has to win, the traitor thought. The world will burn. It is burning, and that’s something you’re just going to have to live with now. If you don’t stop him, though, there will be no more world—nothing to burn at all.

  From the very beginning of the traitor’s mental reckoning, the point had been to kill David Hollowborne. That’s what they had hoped to do when they involved the Prevention Division—even though it ended in failure. So, now, the traitor had to find another way to kill him.

  That was, after all, the only way to stop David.

  Rachel Veritros

  Rachel Veritros went to her faithful with hope in her heart and determination in her mind.

  The world didn’t know of her existence yet, though it soon would.

  The girl who came before Rachel barely had two years to amass her followers. The man who came after took 20. Rachel Veritros took five, and that in itself says a lot about her personality. She could have waited longer; there was no pressure to act. The Ministries, despite their previous brush with the Unformed 2,000 years earlier, had largely forgotten the entity. Rachel Veritros could have waited, creating a larger force. She could have waited until victory was guaranteed.

  She didn’t, though. Her conviction, her possession, compelled her forward.

  Rachel kept her own counsel, rarely discussing thoughts with her direct lieutenants until she’d already made her decision. She didn’t really even rely on the Unformed’s guidance, a trait different from the one before her and the one after. She was independent in that aspect, perhaps her time in the wilderness creating a trust in her own judgment that others lacked.

  For five years, Rachel’s followers increased in number, while she plotted her attack.

  At the end of the fourth year, she decided that the next would be the final one. She’d wait no longer, and neither would the Unformed.

  Rachel brought her lieutenants to her. In her home, she told them to start making their preparations. She had four lieutenants, each assigned to a different Ministry. Their job was to ensure that when the attack began, those with Veritros’s blood running through them would be ready.

  The four asked questions. They planned with Veritros, deciding the first paths they would take to ensure her wishes came to fruition. She listened, offering guidance and overseeing it all.

  At the end of the night, the four people she trusted most left her house, leaving her alone.

  Rachel felt happiness that night. She had chosen the right people beneath her, those that would lead when she couldn’t be there. Her blood had spread far across the four Ministries, perhaps further than she even thought possible when first beginning. The Unformed was with her, and she saw how her plans would unfold. A year before her revolution, Rachel Veritros held unflagging belief in what would come.

  A year later, Rachel Veritros sat alone in the same house, though the wall in front of her displayed one of her lieutenants, Brail Lorner.

  “How do you feel?” she asked.

  “Good.” He paused for a second, looking away from the camera, then nodded and looked back up. “Good.”

  “Okay. Tomorrow, then. I’ll speak to you first thing in the morning,” she said.

  Brail nodded, then opened his mouth for a moment. He glanced off camera again, but remained quiet.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Are you scared?” Brail said.

  Rachel shook her head. “No.”

  “Not at all?”

  “Not at all,” she answered.

  Brail looked back into the camera. “I am, Rachel.”

  Her eyes narrowed as she studied the man in front of her. No doubts ran through her mind about him—the time for questioning promotions had long since passed. Yet, Rachel didn’t want to hear this insecurity the night before their war commenced.

  A few seconds passed and then she said, “Why?”

  “We could lose.”

  Rachel nodded, letting silence fall between them. The man held no tears in his eyes, nor did he tremble. Any fear he possessed, he was holding it in, and Rachel needed that more than anything else. She needed everyone under him to see only resolve, not even a glimmer of doubt.

  “We won’t lose, Brail. If we were to lose, then we wouldn’t be here at all. This is fate. We serve something greater than any of us, greater than anything on Earth or in this universe.”

  “I know,” he said, nodding.

  “Then why are you frightened all of a sudden? You’ve never said anything like this before.”

  “I … I don’t know. I guess because it’s actually here.”

  “There’s nothing to fear, Brail. There’s nothing to be afraid of at all. Tomorrow, we’ll free the world. Tomorrow, we’ll bring God home.” She watched him nod, knowing that she wasn’t done. The next few weeks, perhaps months, would be difficult. “I need you ready for what’s coming, Brail. I need you to push all these doubts out of your head.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you, though? The people who follow you, they’ll sense it. Any doubt, any cracks, and we will lose. We’re facing the entire world and we only have a skeleton crew. Your faith has to be absolute.”

  “It is, Rachel. It is.”

  She stared at him for a few more moments, then said, “We’ll win, Brail. There’s no question about it, none at all. I want you to call me when you wake up tomorrow, okay?”

  “No, I’m fine. I don’t need to—”

  “It’s not a request, Brail. Call me by 3:00.”

  He swallowed and nodded again, probably regretting that he’d said anything at all. No other lieutenants would call, not until midday. Rachel didn’t care. Tomorrow morning, any doubts had better be wiped completely from his mind.

  “I’ll talk to you then,” she said.

  “Okay.”

  The hologram on the wall in front of her faded away, leaving her alone in her apartment.

  Rachel sighed but didn’t stand from her couch. That was something she hadn’t needed to hear, not at this late hour. She didn’t really understand why he’d told her at all. Perhaps he was looking for support. Rachel didn’t know. She wasn’t good at understanding the needs of others, and at this point, she truly didn’t care. They all had a job to do and it was now upon them. All of that … it should have been sorted out before now.

  Fear.

  It was something that didn’t compute, not in her mind.

  She stood from her couch and walked across the small apartment into the kitchen. The lights were off, and she left them that way. She wasn’t hungry, nor looking for anything to drink, she simply didn’t want to sit with those thoughts anymore.

  Fear.

  That’s what her lieutenant had said, that he was afraid. And how long had he been so? Had she missed it? Had her refusal to take in people’s feelings hidden that from her?

  Yes. Maybe so.

  Rachel leaned against the kitchen counter, looking at the faucet in front of her.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said.

  Her eyes sparked to life and water flowed from the faucet a second later. I
t split as it fell, one side turning right, and the other left, then stretched back up into the air. It created a loop ten feet above the faucet before falling back down, the two sides meeting again.

  The water splashed into the basin.

  Rachel’s eyes burned gray in the darkness.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said again. And she knew that was true. It didn’t matter if she had missed Brail’s fear, or if doing so meant she was a poor leader. It wouldn’t matter tomorrow if his fear was still pouring from his mouth like the water from this faucet. She served something greater, and her faith would not falter. Not during her time in the wilderness, and certainly not the night before her war began.

  Every one of her followers could die, and Rachel would continue on. If they all died, she knew that she wouldn’t so much as look back once at their fallen bodies. Her fate was forward, with the Unformed’s, and the next few weeks or months would be painful. For everyone. But in the end, nothing else mattered except Its claim on Earth. On this universe.

  Rachel closed her eyes and when she opened them again, the water poured in a straight line from the faucet, her eyes calm.

  Rachel looked at Brail the next morning, the sun long below the horizon.

  He looked better. He hadn’t looked bad last evening, but seeing him now, Rachel understood his fear had been real. It seemed less so now.

  “How are you?” she asked.

  “Good. Better. I’m …,” he paused but didn’t look away. “I’m sorry about last night. The magnitude finally caught up to me, I think.”

  Rachel was silent as she’d been last night, taking her lieutenant in completely. How serious was he? How much of this was the truth, versus what he wanted her to hear?

  Be here, now, she thought. Nowhere else. See him clearly and make your decision. Is he solid enough to help lead this war?

  Perhaps Brail knew he was being judged, but he said nothing, both of them looking at each other without words passing between.

  He’ll doubt again, before this is over, Rachel thought. Because it’s going to get worse, much worse, before it improves. How far are you willing to entertain his doubts? How much can those beneath him handle?

  Replacing Brail wouldn’t be easy, and she knew it. The man had talents that in many ways surpassed her other lieutenants. Removing him now would be a serious blow to everything coming; Rachel couldn’t deny it, even if she wanted to.

  “Are you okay?” Brail asked.

  Rachel nodded, but still said nothing.

  You picked him long ago, and if this is the first time you’re seeing his faults, so be it. The Unformed gave no indication It disapproved. You’ve made your choices, now live with them.

  “I’m fine. Is everything ready on your end?”

  “Yes, we’ll be launching in the Old World in three hours. Everything’s in place.”

  “Good,” Rachel said. “We’ll talk midday, then.”

  She ended the connection.

  Rachel Veritros closed her eyes and sank down into her couch.

  She did not sleep in the morning’s darkness; that would have been impossible. She was relaxed, though. Perhaps more so than anyone else in her organization, because she understood with the faithful’s conviction that Earth was finished. That change had finally arrived.

  Five

  Raylyn Brinson was curled into a ball on a bed. It was large, with fluffy white pillows scattered across it. Three days had passed since Raylyn returned to the First Council, and she’d spent almost every minute curled up on this bed with a large blanket thrown over her. Every once in a while, she’d open her eyes … but almost always shut them quickly. A few times she left them open, her head under the covers, and stared at the white fabric in front of her.

  She tried not to think.

  It was too much, thinking. Too many thoughts. Too many memories.

  She just wanted to lie in the cool black of sleep. In that darkness, she didn’t have to consider anything.

  Not all those ships falling. Not the Disciple’s death, moving like the wind and then simply vaporizing. She didn’t have to consider Lynda, someone she had known for years—didn’t have to relive the moment where Lynda’s arm was detached from her wrist, or the hammock of hell she lay on until her death.

  Raylyn didn’t have to think about David Hollowborne (a name that she would never forget) or his gray eyes staring at her like pure, crackling energy.

  Looking at him had done something to Raylyn, stuck a sharp dagger deep into her chest. Pierced her heart. That man … he shouldn’t exist, not in Corinth’s world. Yet he did. She’d seen him and heard his voice, been close enough for him to snatch her life away.

  When she slept, none of those things were real.

  I can do this forever.

  I can just lie here and no one will ever disturb me.

  Food wasn’t a consideration. She always found a glass of water waiting on her nightstand, and she sipped from it occasionally, but other than that—sleep’s embrace was all she needed.

  She didn’t know that days were passing. She didn’t care.

  Raylyn only wanted nothing, but she wanted it forever.

  The First Priest spent the next 72 hours in a state of constant movement. He had no idea what the High Priest was doing, nor the other head Priests, but he knew his role: try to regain some semblance of order throughout the True Faith.

  He had no time to pray, no time to truly strategize about his actions. If Corinth existed, then surely He was watching. He knew what was happening, and to sit and pray right now would only anger the First Priest’s God, because to pray in the face of such destruction was to start drinking water during a flood—instead of at least trying to swim.

  The First Priest swam for 68 out of 72 hours. He spent the other four sleeping.

  The tide wasn’t turning, but it wasn’t advancing anymore either, and for that the First Priest gave thanks.

  The True Faith had established pockets inside certain cities, spaces of relative safety. They were delivering food and military support to those pockets, though the cities surrounding them were still places of death and fire.

  The High Priest had not made contact again, apparently content dealing with the Disciple and the woman he held captive. The First would deal with the True Faith’s realities.

  “We’re getting nowhere,” one of the Council told him. “Three days in, and we’re barely gaining inches.”

  “What of the High?” another asked.

  The First turned to him, his eyebrows raised. “Would you like to check in with him? See what he’s thinking?”

  “No, that’s not what I’m saying and you know it. I’m asking what direction has he given you?”

  “None outside of bringing the woman to him.”

  “And what of the weapon? What has he said about him?” the Priestess asked.

  That triggered something in the First’s mind.

  The weapon.

  If he were being honest, he’d nearly forgotten about David Hollowborne. All of them had, except for the Priestess, apparently. Three days and all anyone had thought about was trying to throw water on the flames. What about the person setting the fires?

  “Hello?” the Priestess asked.

  The First turned to her. “The High Priest didn’t say anything about him. He was only concerned with the woman.”

  “Well, shouldn’t we be concerned about him, then? He’s the reason all of this is happening.”

  The First realized his foolishness. He wouldn’t say so in front of these jackals, but that was the truth. He’d lost sight of the real war here, the atrocity creating all of this, and only gone about trying to save ground. How had Veritros been defeated? How about the girl before her? None of them lost because the Ministries fought foot by foot. This wasn’t a normal war. The weapon was still out there and …

  “The weapon has to die,” he said, looking at the Priestess but talking only to himself. “That’s the only way any of this ends. The High ….
” He trailed off—not daring denigrate the High Priest to anyone else—but the High was far too preoccupied with things not destroying the world. “… We’ve got to focus on the weapon. Lose the cities. Lose the whole damned True Faith if necessary, as long as he dies. The weapon.”

  The First nodded, still staring at the Priestess, but again—only nodding to himself.

  “How, though?” someone asked.

  The First stood up and left the room. He didn’t have time for consensus.

  The First Priest stood at the doorway to Raylyn Brinson’s room. The door was translucent, on his side at least. He could see in, though she couldn’t see out. The bed, blankets, and pillows were all translucent as well—from this side it appeared as if she simply lay on top of air. This arrangement gave Brinson’s attendants a clear view of what was happening without actually having to go inside.

  One of the attendants stood next to the First Priest.

  “We give thanks,” he said.

  “We give thanks.”

  “What’s she been doing?” the First asked.

  “This is pretty much it, your Holiness. She sleeps a lot. She hasn’t eaten, and if she doesn’t soon, we’ll have to make her.”

  “Three days, no food?” the First said.

  “Yes, your Holiness.”

  He sighed. This was less than optimum, to say the least. Yet, what other choice did he have?

  “I want you to get her up and ready,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, your Holiness. What do you mean?”

  “Dressed. Washed. Cleaned. Fed. All of it. I want her up and ready to leave,” the First said.

  The attendant was quiet for a second, not looking over at the Priest, though he sensed her apprehension. “Your Holiness, I … I mean no disrespect, at all, but she is going to need more time. To push her right now, she might not come back from it.”

  The First Priest turned to the attendant, and she to him so that they looked at one another. “Have you viewed anything outside these walls, Sister? Have you seen what’s happening?”

  She dropped her eyes to the ground and nodded.