The Prophet: Life: A Sci-Fi Thriller

by David Beers

“THAT’S NOT GOOD ENOUGH!” the man screamed.

  And maybe it wasn’t, but …

  “Did you see them?” Yule asked, his voice calm against Daniel’s onslaught. “Did you see how many there were, at least when the lasers started?”

  Daniel opened his mouth to say something, but caught himself short. His eyes full of tears and his face red, Yule knew Daniel Sesam was seeing the truth in the Pope’s words.

  “We couldn’t do anything, Mr. Sesam. We couldn’t go after her, not against that force. Every one of us would have died.”

  Daniel’s mouth closed, the stone bunker in view behind him. Yule saw other people in the camera’s view, but none dared step into the full frame.

  “She isn’t lost,” Yule repeated. “But now we have to start with diplomacy. We’ll get her back, but I can’t command our ships to attack the High Priest of another Ministry—not with the war over.”

  Daniel shook his head at the camera, opened his mouth again, then shut it. He stared for a second longer, then finally said, “You were willing to attack him when the world was at stake, but now that’s finished and she isn’t as important?”

  The Pope said nothing. What could he tell this grieving father? Daniel was right, because now Yule had to protect the Catholic Church’s faithful, and war wouldn’t do that.

  “I’m using these machines,” Daniel said. “I’m using them to stay with her until we get her back.”

  Yule nodded and then the man walked out of the camera’s view.

  Dr. Lane stepped up to take Daniel’s place, but Yule raised a hand. “Not right now. I’ll be back soon.”

  He turned from the screen and after a few seconds, it went black then returned to its wall state.

  Yule walked across the transport, the generals and military personnel quiet as he passed by. He had taken the conversation in full view of them, but now he wanted to be alone. He didn’t look at the Captain’s chair he’d rode over here on, but walked past it and through a back door. The ship held a few, small rooms, and Yule found one of the cabins. He sat down on the bed and put his head in his hands. The Pope couldn’t keep up with all the emotions running through him. The world was rejoicing, no doubt—from the highest building of the One Path to the lowest tower in the True Faith. The world had been liberated. God had delivered His people once more.

  Everyone, save those who lost the war, was feeling happiness they hadn’t known possible.

  Everyone, save those who lost the war … and Daniel Sesam.

  … And Yule, Pope of the Catholic Church and Leader of the Old World.

  Because although the weapon had been defeated, and the Black banished—the woman Yule had come for was gone, kidnapped by another Ministry.

  What do I do, Lord? Please. Direct me as to how I can bring this daughter back to her father.

  Yule had told Daniel it was time for diplomacy, but doubt lived in his mind. A beehive of it, deadly and chaotic. Because the High Priest …

  He doesn’t want Nicki for the Black, Yule thought. He never did. Whatever he wants, it’s for him, and that’s why he still has her.

  Yule closed his eyes and prayed for Nicki Sesam’s life, because regardless of what he told Daniel, he knew it was in peril.

  It’d been a mistake and the First Priest only hoped he wouldn’t live to regret it. His death could be quick, there was still hope for that.

  The First Priest stood in the High’s … home? He didn’t know, but as he looked around the wooden room, he wondered how long the High had been insane. His home appeared to be a single room with a bathroom attached. It floated alone in the sky … of another Ministry.

  “She’s below?” the High Priest asked, his back to the First.

  “Yes, my High Priest.”

  “And the Disciple?”

  “He’s with her. They’re both waiting for your direction.”

  The First Priest swallowed though his mouth was dry. He should have turned the ships on this small house, ripping it apart and later claiming it had been an accident. There had been a few moments where he could have done it, and he’d known they were passing him by too. It wasn’t like the First was looking back now, thinking he’d missed his opportunity. No, he’d missed nothing. He’d simply acted in the opposite manner.

  Two chances, actually.

  The first when the Disciple held the weapon distracted. He could have slipped by easily, turning his weapons on this home. Instead, he gave the command to fire on the weapon, giving up his secrecy and wasting his first chance.

  The second came when the First Priest watched the false Prophet fall through the sky—and for a few seconds, allowed himself to think his life might continue on as it had before. That perhaps all could be forgiven, his transgressions against the Proclamations and the High Priest’s anger toward him wiped clean. During that time of consideration, he still could have found this house and laid waste to it.

  But he had allowed the window to close. And then he’d been called to this small building, where he exited the transport alone and joined the High Priest.

  “This is the first time anyone’s ever been here,” the High said. “Do you know why I live in the One Path, Brother?”

  “No, my Holy.”

  “Does it bother you that I do?”

  “No. It’s not my place to question any of your decisions. I know where you live, it’s in Corinth’s service,” the First said, knowing no such thing. The only knowledge that seemed concrete was the High Priest’s insanity, and that the First had made a horrible mistake in coming here.

  A horrible mistake by not murdering the man standing before him.

  “You broke Corinth’s proclamation,” the High said, changing the subject as if they’d been speaking of nothing else.

  “I know,” the First responded, hoping pain rippled through his words. “There isn’t enough sorrow in the world to express my feelings.”

  The High nodded, the back of his bald head bobbing up and down slightly.

  “Yet, your Proclamation breaking resulted in the weapon’s defeat. It saved the world, did it not?”

  “Perhaps some might see it that way,” the First whispered.

  “Many might.” The High Priest turned around and the First saw him in the flesh after long, long years. He’d of course seen him while sitting in that black box, the green pixels relaying the crazy man’s image, but they hadn’t told the full truth. His skin was flabbier, his face rounder. His eyes appeared to have actually sunk inside of his face, as if they couldn’t stand looking out at the world anymore and so tried retreating.

  The First never wanted to look at this face again, and yet he kept staring, knowing that to look away might mean death.

  “I sent you here to die,” the High said as if reading his thoughts.

  And maybe he is.

  “But you didn’t. You killed the weapon and brought me what I asked for.” The two stared at each other for a minute, or maybe an hour, the First couldn’t tell—he just kept looking forward, refusing to drop his eyes. “If I killed you for your transgressions now, I would be within my right. However, I’m unsure how Corinth would look at it. You love Corinth, correct?”

  The First nodded.

  “And you ask for His guidance? Outside of this last transgression?”

  The First nodded again.

  “Then I want you to ask for His guidance here, and I’d like you to tell me what you think should happen.”

  The High stopped talking and silence resumed.

  “Now?” the First asked. “You want me to tell you now, your Holiness?”

  “Yes. If you love Corinth and you know Him, it shouldn’t be hard to understand what He wants from you.”

  The First nodded slowly, his words already forming in his mind. He walked a on a wire here and knew it. To lean one direction or the other … and he would end up in the same place as the weapon.

  “The world needs to be fixed. It would be both a great honor and a grueling task to serve Corinth in such a
manner. I think it would please Him to spare my life and allow me to do that.”

  The High turned around and looked at the wall again. “Go then. Fix the world.” A hand rose into the air, and he waved the First off as if he was a child asking too many questions.

  The First stood for a second longer, his right hand trembling slightly, and then without another word, he left the madman’s house.

  Rhett was alone, stored in the undercarriage of a large transport. They had left him on the hard, metal floor, alone and locked away.

  He couldn’t move, the necklace strapped on his neck holding him immobile.

  Rhett didn’t know where Rebecca was, nor Christine. He didn’t know where anyone he’d spent the last 20 years with was—all were taken from him.

  Loss weighed on his chest, as heavy as the very transport he traveled in. He moved through phases of sobbing and then staring up at the ceiling with dry eyes. Images of David falling relentlessly plagued his mind. David’s body going limp, the gray cloud of spiderwebs around him dying, and then him sinking into endless sky.

  Except it wasn’t endless, because if it was, he’d still be alive.

  Whenever he saw David falling, he broke down again, tears running from his eyes as if they might be able to drown him in this cell.

  Maybe if he cried enough, he would die and not have to feel like this anymore.

  Rhett felt only loss. A loss of his whole life … all of it had been for nothing, and now he was headed to a painful end—one that would also be a lie. His cause, his life all portrayed as something evil.

  A loss of the Unformed—of the God they all worked so hard to bring forth.

  And the worst, which Rhett hadn’t understood until now, was the loss of David. He’d always thought he served the Unformed, and David was only a means to that end. He understood the truth now. He had been serving David this entire time …

  And he didn’t regret it.

  His only regret was not helping at the end. Somehow reaching out and grabbing his Prophet from the air.

  It’s not over.

  Nicki heard the words, though neither she—nor anyone else she knew—had spoken them. She’d heard the voice once before, but had forgotten it. The voice spoke to her as she flew over the desert, the transport falling to certain death.

  The voice had said, Let it come. Just trust it, and let it come.

  And Nicki had listened, letting the gray light fill her and save her life.

  The same voice was here now, speaking to her again.

  It’s not over. Maybe it never will be, but this is not the end.

  Nicki was in darkness, a place between sleep and wakefulness. She didn’t know how long she’d been here, only that the Disciple had put a rag underneath her nose and forced her to inhale.

  It’s time to wake up, Nicki, the voice said.

  Nicki couldn’t talk, couldn’t ask any questions.

  Remember, whatever is about to happen, nothing is over. Not nearly.

  “We give thanks.”

  Nicki’s eyes opened slowly, this voice very different from the one she heard in the darkness. This was a man, and his voice sounded both old and confident. Years had taken their toll on his vocal chords, but they’d also made him believe that whatever he said was truth.

  She blinked a few times, her eyes trying to focus on the world around her.

  Nicki attempted to move her arms—wanting to wipe the sleep from her face—but they didn’t move.

  “Whuh?” she said, realizing she was in a standing position and immediately trying to walk.

  “No, you won’t be moving a lot,” the voice said and Nicki heard it growing closer to her. It had been behind her, but it was circling around now. “You’re wearing what the Prevention Division calls a necklace, and it’ll keep you from attacking me or anyone else you might come in contact with while you’re here.”

  The man came into view.

  Bald, fat, old, and wearing dark robes that Nicki knew immediately weren’t from the Old World.

  Her eyes found his head, its hairlessness striking. Not just bald, but completely lacking even a single hair follicle.

  “I did a lot to bring you here, Nicki Sesam,” the man said as he stepped closer. “I went through years and years of being alone, serving my Master the best I could, and He’s finally given you to me.”

  The man’s eyes didn’t waver, didn’t even blink. He stared at her with a force that she’d never seen, one that spoke of a faith that had long ago crossed the line into zealotry.

  A zealot for what, though?

  The old man stepped so close that their noses were only inches from each other. His eyes darted to Nicki’s forehead, and his hand followed. She felt the back of his knuckles rub across it.

  “I can’t wait to see what’s inside.”

  To be continued in The Prophet: Death

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