by Mark Kraver
“You can’t knock down that house,” Mrs. Benson protested. “I’m the property manager, and that boy’s family has been renting there for two years.”
Goodheart shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you. Who’s the owner?”
Mrs. Benson’s face was turning redder by the minute. “RealmCo Properties,” she spat out. “But they’re not local. This is their only property around.”
“Right,” Goodheart said. “Well, sorry ma’am. I’m just following orders. They’ll have to take it up with the Bureau.”
Goodheart looked at Sullivan. “Block off this road, evacuate everyone for a quarter mile radius, and keep the media out. I don’t want any of that free-speech shit until we get this thing outta here. Can you get a moving van here within the hour to move their personal belongings?”
Sullivan’s eyes widened again with disbelief. “I’ll try,” he said.
Goodheart glared, then he looked around half expediting one to be rolling up the street.
“I’ll have it here if I have to drive it here myself,” Sullivan said. Goodheart grunted with approval.
The large flatbed had parked on the side of the road, not far from the crater site. Goodheart could see a man in white coveralls getting out of the driver’s seat and walking toward him with something flat in his hand. As he got nearer, Goodheart could see it was a folder.
“For you,” the man said simply, handing it to Goodheart and turning back toward his truck.
Inside the folder was a single letter, signed by two names, the Bureau chief and the COO of RealmCo Holdings. What the— Goodheart felt his heart racing. He looked up and saw Sullivan approaching, a questioning look on his face.
Goodheart tapped the top of the folder and forced out a sardonic chuckle. “The paperwork,” he said.
Sullivan shook his head, opened the folder and studied the language. “You’re kidding. The paperwork to demolish this house? How did that happen so fast?” Now Sullivan started looking around like he was on candid camera, too. “What’s going on, boss man?”
The crowd, animated by the growing presence of trucks and equipment, was ignoring the hole and putting its attention fully on Goodheart and Sullivan. Mrs. Benson had stormed back to join them, with the fussy young boy. The boy looked more angry than sad now and, emboldened by his surrounding neighbors, yelled out, “My dad’s gonna sue the crap out of you guys, whoever you are.”
Goodheart looked at Sullivan and shook his head in resignation. “Why doesn’t that scare me? We’ve already spent a ton of money on this satellite project. What’s another expense?” he sighed. “God, I need some antacids.”
Under layers of earth that had taken thousands of years to accumulate, Yahweh’s hibernation faceplate began to pulse with rhythmic waves of light. It was the automated wake-up sequence triggered by the lack of input to this new situation—input that should have been processed by his caretaker Numen.
“Numen was not there to protect and defend a citizen of the Elohim?” Nadira asked, alarmed by the unimaginable breach of protocol.
Lanochee squeezed her hand, sharing Nadira’s concern. “How was that possible?”
Yahweh was silent for a moment, remembering the overwhelming relief of waking to realize he hadn’t been consumed by the red giant. Numen’s absence had been then but an afterthought.
“I wasn’t afraid of being afraid,” he said. “I was afraid of not being.”
Chapter 17
Theology made no provision for evolution. The biblical authors had missed the most important revelation of all! Could it be that they were not really privy to the thoughts of God?
E. O. Wilson, 1929-2029, Earth
Library of Souls
Resurrection
Inside the buried ship, Yahweh’s hibernation pod opened with a hiss and a pop. His limp body unfolded from the fetal position as the graviton emitters woven throughout his golden gravity suit became activated. He floated out and into the seat that rose out of the floor at his instrumentation console. He lifted his head, looked toward Numen’s station, and saw no one. Arching his back and forcing his tired body to twist around to view the entire ship’s interior, his three brains were confused. For the first time in his life, he felt a primordial jolt of adrenaline circulate through his arteries via his brain-vagal-gut physiological response of the hypothalamic-pituitary-adrenal axis enhanced in him during flight prep. He was afraid.
Yahweh didn’t know what had happened to Numen, but something had triggered this resurrection and he needed to find out what. But first, he needed to get to the replenisher before he collapsed from exhaustion. His adrenal rush had almost passed when he stood to move to the back of the ship. Through a conscious thought, he activated the graviton emitters connected to his peripheral nervous system and lifted off his feet. Floating to the replenisher, he dispensed a canister of nutrition with a wave of his limp hand over floating spheres that popped out of nowhere from the control console. Holding the canister of life in his hands, he wondered, where is Numen? He fit the much-needed fuel into his backpack socket and sighed.
Nourishment rushed through his systems, making him quiver, and improving his strength as he floated back to his command console to evaluate the situation. The canister popped out of his pack and he drank the rest.
Is this a rescue? he thought, evaluating all the outside activities on the ship’s exterior monitors. Had Ra or El recovered and come to help? No, he quickly surmised seeing no Elohim base technology being used to uncover his craft. How long had he been sleeping? This must be techno-social evolution of the indigenous people of this planet. How marvelous.
He checked the ship’s chronometer and was disturbed at what he saw. “Cutting it close, that star will balloon soon,” he said aloud, to test his vocal cords. “I suppose it is better than being consumed inside the belly of a dying star.”
Yahweh monitored the airwaves for recognizable frequencies and picked up an assortment. He began to process them, hoping to learn the state of planetary technology and, more importantly, the whereabouts of Numen.
The Obituary Chamber’s wall veins pulsed with emerald light:
“You were scared?” Lanochee asked.
“I was scared once,” Nadira said. “When I found myself trapped in the Koos while exploring the farthest reaches of the universe inside the Halo. A horrible place, none of the laws of physics applied. Like a bird trying to fly through liquid mercury, I felt helpless.”
“How did you escape?” Lanochee asked.
“I’m not sure. When I awoke from hibernation the front half of my ship was inside an invisible zone. Putting my hand into the hypnotic field had an incredibly addictive feeling. All I could think of was feeling it again. Fearing this force, I used a probe on the phenomenon that sparkled and turned into pure energy. The main problem was that my ship’s navigational controls were located inside this invisible zone. After failing everything I could think of to get my ship free, I walked into the irresistible nothingness and fell asleep. I dreamt my mother was an angel. When I woke, I was in my ship orbiting Heaven.”
“How do you know any of it was true?” he asked.
“My ship’s logs corroborated everything.”
“I was also afraid when I crashed onto this primitive planet,” said Yahweh.
“But you chose to sleep,” countered Nadira.
“Yet, he did resurrect,” added Lanochee.
Chapter 18
Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished.
Lao Tzu, 604-531 BC, Earth
Library of Souls
Atlantis
Numen, where are you? Numen could hear the call faintly through his backup communications array. Deep under the Antarctic ice, he was finalizing his plans for the Anti-Babel cherubim survey of the planet’s flora, fauna, and mineral resources.
“Did you hear that?” Numen asked no one in particular.
“Numen, I need you.” The voice sounded deep inside his circuitry.
“Master?” Numen asked, suddenly recognizing the voice. He looked up at the tall, domed ice ceiling. Ten thousand flying cherubim were now exiting through the top of the subterranean industrial complex every minute. Millions had already deployed and were currently moving in three controlled waves over the major land masses of the world.
“Our master, Yahweh, has risen,” Numen shouted, creating a loud booming echo around the dome. He turned to Dimitris. “I leave you in charge. I know you will not fail.”
“All of Atlantis will wait for your next words,” Dimitris said, with a sparkle of delight in his eyes. “We will continue to deploy the Anti-Babel cherubim. Go forth and comfort our Lord.”
Numen tapped one of the seven emerald keys in the palm of his hand and engaged his graviton emitters. All eyes fell upon him floating in the center of the dome.
“My brothers and sisters, genesis has begun, and your time to leave this shelter is near. All that you have worked for is coming to fruition. Soon we will prepare for our long journey to Heaven.”
The Atlantans below cheered and clapped.
“I leave you to join our Lord, Yahweh, as we begin cleansing this planet before taking our proper place at Heaven.”
Numen put his hands together and vanished in an echoing thunderbolt. He reappeared for a moment in the frigid air of Antarctica, then, leaving a sonic boom in his wake, burst forward in the only direction afforded him—north.
“Was Numen defective?” Nadira asked, sensing something very strange about the seraph’s behavior.
“Defective?” Yahweh repeated. “I suppose it depends on how you define the word.”
Chapter 19
Life is either a great adventure or nothing.
Helen Keller, 1880-1968, Earth
Library of Souls
Vacation
“Space Command f-found the source of that-that-that Florida signal, and you w-wouldn’t believe it,” Mac said, swinging around in his chair as Logan walked in the office. It was 6 AM and she had slept on the couch last night, so she wouldn’t have to talk with Conrad. Their evening had ended pleasantly enough, but she still wasn’t any closer to knowing where she wanted the relationship to go—or if she wanted it to continue at all. Avoiding a conversation with him seemed like the easiest solution for now.
“They’ve d-dug up ancient objects at-at the Florida site,” Mac said.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I d-don’t know. They d-didn’t say.”
“I wish I could see it with my own eyes,” she said.
“Why can’t you?” Mac sat up and looked intently at Logan, his expression more sympathetic and composed than she was used to seeing. “The boss man did want you to take it easy. This blend getting away with seeing something potentially amazing. I’d call this a pretty cool vacation.”
Logan looked at Mac. He was pretty convincing. “I do deserve a vacation. God only knows I’ve earned it,” Logan said. A sound flooded through her head, a single haunting word: “Go.”
“You want me to call Conrad?” Mac asked.
“No, I’ll tell him myself, later. He’ll be in an all-day emergency meeting with his mother. God, I hope they’re not talking about me. Anyway, what’s the name of Harold’s friend, from Keesler?”
“W-wilson something. I’m n-not sure,” Mac said, his stammer kicking back in, “but I c-can get th-the info.”
“Thanks. Send it to my cell phone. I’ll keep in touch.” She left the main room deep in thought and went into her office to log onto a travel agency.
Mac sat still, waiting to hear Logan settling into her desk chair in the office across the hall. “Do you think Conrad will go with her?” he asked the empty room.
Chapter 20
“We need to learn how to live on the moon and Mars so when we destroy the Earth, the Earth will still feel like home.”
Katherine Logan, 1984-2101, Earth
Library of Souls
Three Ring Circus
“You knocked down a residential house on live TV,” shouted Goodheart’s immediate supervisor over the phone. “Are you out of your mind? What the hell’s going on down there?”
Goodheart held the phone a tolerable distance away from his ear and answered, “It was only half the house.” He was standing inside an old airplane hangar in the middle of the Florida Everglades.
“Who gave you the authority to move those artifacts to the middle of the nowhere?” Static overtook the call, distorting their voices.
“What?” Goodheart asked, not hearing what was said.
“...like a three-ringed circus,” his boss shouted over the airwaves, but only part of what he said was heard.
“No sir, three—it’s in three long shiny pieces, not rings.”
“I said circus. Have you seen the news coverage?”
“No, sir, we couldn’t get those news choppers out of there. I wanted to make us a no-fly zone, but the FAA said no.”
“Why did you go to the Everglades with all that stuff?”
“Technically, the Big Cypress…” Goodheart replied.
“What?” Static scrabbled the airwaves to Washington, DC.
“It’s off of old U.S. Forty-One,” Goodheart shouted.
“Area Fifty-One?”
“No sir, not fifty-one. Forty-one.”
“Area Forty-One? Never heard of it,” his boss shouted over the increasing static, not following his meaning.
“It’s not called an area anything, sir,” Goodheart said. His phone went dead. “He’s gonna have to take it up with his boss,” he said to nobody in particular, reaching into his coat pocket and patting his get-out-of-jail-free paperwork. “The chief will tell ‘em,” he said, but no one was listening. Sullivan was left back in the Cape to clean up the mess they had made. The workers that transported everything to this remote site were resting drinking coffee and eating donuts after working their butts off unloading the artifacts. Two helicopters buzzed over the abandoned airplane hangar in the late afternoon sky trying to shine light on this mysterious, breaking story.
“So, my satellite wasn’t a failure after all,” Dr. Logan said, eyeing the artifact from the hangar doors. She pulled back her hair into a ponytail and tied her hooded sweater around her hips.
She could hardly believe she was standing there, looking at this—whatever it was. She had caught the first flight to Miami, which, by some happenstance, was already waiting at the terminal at the Los Angeles International Airport. It felt like a miracle to have found a flight at such short notice, much less one that she didn’t even have to wait for. And then, upon landing in Miami, she practically floated through finding a car rental; no lines, no lengthy negotiations over insurances, just a quick signature and here’s your key, Ms. Logan. The strangest thing about the whole trip was that she somehow made every street light from the airport to this bum-fuck airstrip located halfway between Miami and Naples without stopping once.
Goodheart spun around, “What? Listen here. No visitors allowed.” He turned to the police officer on loan from the Fort Myers Police Department. “You need to bottle up this place tighter than an alligator’s ass or…”
“Excuse me, Agent. This is Dr. Katherine Logan,” said the flack-jacketed police officer. Logan looked at Goodheart’s muddy white shirt and frowned.
Noticing her stare, he apologized. “I haven’t had enough sleep, and I spent the last eight hours moving and unloading these artifacts. Now who the hell are you?”
“Dr. Katherine Logan. SETI satellite? The one who found this thing.”
“Oh yeah, the satellite. Rrright,” Goodheart said, nodding and brushing at the stains on his dress shirt and loose tie. “Thank you doctor, but this is out of your hands, now. Herrrhem, I fell in the mud—digging this thing up,” he said, clearing his throat. “Take a quick look around, but don’t get too close or in the way.” As she moved toward the artifact, Goodheart stepped closer to the police escort and mouthed, “Get rid of her,” then walked away to answer his cell phone.<
br />
Yahweh sat at his console, learning what he could from the primitive electromagnet communications filling the airwaves and some other bizarre informational system called the world wide web. He noted that though the people of this planet had started recording history some two antons ago, they had written a great deal about nothing and even more about things that had never happened.
Those poor people Lost in Space and Gilligan’s Island, he thought. Their scientific concepts didn’t make sense, their use of matter and energy was wasteful and destructive and look at how many people live on this planet. How did they feed them all? On the other hand, he did like some of what he had heard and seen on the web. He did like something call Pink Floyd. Some parts sounded like what he heard when he entered and left hibernation, very strange, indeed. He also liked something called the Little Mermaid. He wondered if the people of this planet had evolved enough to tap into the galacticNet and learn of the Ichthyoids from the Helios System. Maybe Ichthyoid-type people lived here in the oceans of this planet, he wondered. He made a mental note to research that later.
Yahweh directed his attention to the person he assumed was in charge. On one of his monitors, Yahweh could see the darker skinned man speaking into his hand, transmitting and receiving electromagnetic signals. It must be a primitive communication device? Maybe he could tap into the man’s device to communicate with the people of this planet? Yahweh wished Numen was here to work through the physics, but the process was elementary enough and he wasn’t doing anything else at the moment. He isolated the frequency and began to transmit a signal but didn’t know what to say. What did one say to a primitive race of hominin?
He thought he should keep it simple until he developed a perfect understanding of their language. Numen was supposed to handle these protocols for him. He did not want these people to think he was here to harm them.
