by Mark Kraver
“Do you still have eyes on the target?” the general called into his hand-held radio.
“Negative. The targets vanished.”
“Oh man. Sorry about the carpet,” one of the men apologized to the other when he saw that he had streaked black tar on the carpet with his shoes.
“I would not worry about it. Those historic tracks will never be erased,” the other said, with a heavy African accent.
Cathguard focused on the trio. On the limp woman’s forehead was a bright yellow star. He realized who she must be; it was the woman from the alien cloud.
“What’s this? Doctor Logan? Is that you?” the general asked. When he didn’t see any sign of dissent, he asked, “Well doctor, did you enjoy your little ride in that cloud?”
Outside, crowds of enthusiastic believers trying to get a closer look at God’s messenger swarmed the building’s front entrance. Guards pushed back as hard as they could, but nothing was stopping the shear mass of bodies pushing towards the large bulletproof picture windows.
“We are protected in here,” a man said from the other side of the lobby.
“Mr. Secretary General,” General Cathguard said, looking up and recognizing the smiling, animated face. “Good to—” he stopped as a thud of someone falling against the front window distracted him. Over the secretary general’s shoulder, Cathguard could see a man with a long dark beard getting pushed face first into the window. Uniformed riot police were behind him, trying to subdue him. The man was dressed in an unseasonably large winter coat and was wearing a tall hiking backpack. His sardonic distant expression pressed against the window made him look more like a suicide bomber than a jubilant Christian.
Cathguard’s gut froze, squeezing into a tight knot.
BOOM! BOOM! The sound exploded in a double kaboom of flashing light, as a concussive wave hit the front windows, blowing them out of their frames. A gigantic fireball blasted everyone and everything to the ground. The secretary general’s body flew into the next room as the back pressure of the shockwave exhausted out the front of the building and then up into the ceiling. The first couple of floors above them began to collapse, and people lay—still alive—like matchsticks in the outside shallow water fountains.
When the smoke began to clear, moans and screams erupted as people called out for help. Cathguard’s eyes slowly opened; he grimaced with shoulder pain from being slammed to the floor. Sitting up, he looked around at the destruction he himself had planned. He never imagined this would happen. His bomber was aimed at the aliens, not innocent bystanders, and especially not him. He stood and looked to see if there were any survivors, but he saw no one dead in his immediate vicinity.
“Where’s Dr. Logan?” he asked his two army ranger escorts who were struggling to stand, but they shrugged their shoulders with confusion.
A disturbing thought ran through the connectome:
“All the people of this planet do not view you as their savior?” Nadira asked.
“Even in spite of what should be seen as a miracle happening before their very eyes?” Lanochee added.
“They have been lost for almost their entire existence. They do not know what they do not know. If you are to become their father, you need to accept them for what they are, and not for what they should be.”
Chapter 45
Rebellion without truth is like spring in a bleak, arid desert.
Khalil Gibran, 1883-1931, Earth
Library of Souls
Hala’ib Triangle, Nubian Desert, North Sudan-Egypt
Wilson was amazed at how easily he found the signal in the middle of the desert, with only the crescent moonlight to illuminate the bleak landscape. When they’d landed at the Aswan Dam Airfield just a few hours earlier, he would have never thought his job would have been so simple. Watching the platoon pour out of Large Marge’s belly and other gathered air transports—all brought together in bum-fuck Egypt to put together the helicopters needed to fly deep into the desert—put the magnitude of their mission into perspective.
They had flown from the granite hills peppered with amber sand dunes along the mighty Nile River, to the Bir Quleib oasis waypoint, and then onto their destination, Gebel Mineiga, a small mountainous out-cropping inside the Hala’ib Triangle. Wilson had noted during the flight that Captain Abe Bingham, his commanding officer for the mission, was a man of few words.
Those satellite boys sure pinpointed the signal accurately this time, Wilson thought. Maybe it was the brand-new state-of-the-art equipment or maybe it was just dumb luck, he was just glad he didn’t look stupid in front of all the angry looking soldiers patrolling this desolate discovery site.
One Chinook heavy-lift helicopter had already dropped off a bulldozer, and the other Chinook was refueling the Apache attack helicopters for their return flight.
Wilson was on the ground, pointing the frequency intensity meter at a small cliff of rocks, when the area lit up like a football stadium. Portable generators screamed in every direction, supporting the massive light stands that circled the site.
“Move the refueled Apaches behind those hills and set up a perimeter while we find out what’s under these rocks,” shouted Captain Bingham, organizing the activities.
“Don’t dig too fast. You’ll tear something up,” Wilson yelled as the dozer’s massive shovel recklessly plowed into the side of the hill.
“Don’t worry about it,” Bingham shouted back, having already been briefed on the nature of what they were looking for. “I heard these things are pretty tough. Besides, we’re in a hurry.”
“Hurry?” Wilson yelled over the roar of the bulldozer. “We’re in middle of the desert, for heaven’s sakes. What’s the hurry?”
“It’s getting pretty crowded out here. AWAC is picking up activity from the south-southeast. We aren’t the only ones looking for something in the desert tonight.”
“AWAC? How long have they been up there?” Wilson yelled, looking up to see if he could spot the aircraft in the sky, but the light pollution from all the spotlights left little chance.
The captain shrugged.
“Captain, we have visitors.” Master-Sergeant Bret Mars pointed to the south-southeastern horizon. “Twenty klicks and closing fast. Probably coming outta the Port of Sudan.”
“How many?”
“Looks like two waves. The first is about a dozen helicopters.”
“We might have to fight our way out of here,” the captain yelled.
“Fight? Fight who?” Wilson shouted.
The captain ignored him.
“Mr. Wilson, your job is done here. The bulldozer will do the rest. I suggest you find a safe place and hide,” Sergeant Mars blared.
“Master Sergeant have your Apaches take up points here and here.” Bingham indicated where with a wave of his hand. “If we start taking fire, light ‘em up. Cut the lights at five klicks. That bulldozer can use night-vision. Keep it working, no matter what happens.”
“Understood, sir.”
Wilson stood close to the mound of rocks being excavated and watched the south-southeast sky, listening for the thump, thump, thump of helicopters. He couldn’t hear a thing over the loud portable generators and the revved-up diesel engine of the bulldozer tearing into the rocks. Then a hollow thud sound came from the direction of the dozer. Just as Wilson turned his head to investigate, the lights went out.
Chapter 46
It is a mistake to look too far ahead. Only one link of the chain of destiny can be handled at a time.
Winston Churchill, 1874-1965, Earth
Library of Souls
Jet Propulsion Laboratory
Mac stood in the doorway and listened to the TV for a few seconds to find out what was on the news: The CNN news anchor Chick Blizzard reported:
“A bomb. A suicide bomb went off in front of the UN building shortly after Jesus informed the people of the Earth, Judgement Day had indeed arrived…”
“Well boys, it looks like we’re out of business,” Mac said.
Harold and Booger, who had been watching the non-stop TV coverage of the cloud, blackout, and the bombing at the UN building, looked up at the sound of Mac’s voice.
Something about Mac seemed different. He appeared taller, prouder—but he still wore that dumb ski cap.
“What?” Harold asked, realizing that there was a finality in Mac’s delivery. He had pushed in his chair and several personal items—his keys, an old coffee cup that said, ‘Live life to the Maxillary’ and the huge bag of mints that lived on the corner of his desk—were now gone. “Wait a second. You’re not quitting, are you? What’s gotten into you lately? What’s happened to our little buddy Mac?”
“Mac, I might just miss that name,” he lamented. “I really do prefer Macintosh over PCs.”
“What? Isn’t your name—”
“Not Mac. My name is Maximilian DiRoma,” he said, slapping his right fist to his chest and straightening up again as if coming to attention. “That is what is printed on my paycheck. I was assigned to make sure you found what you were looking for, and now that you have, I’m off to my next job.”
“Next job?” Booger repeated, perplexed. “What are you talking about? What were we looking for?”
“Our destiny. You might call my next job ‘planetary renewal.’” He rubbed his shaved chin, smiling. “Well, goodbye,” he said, and with a wave of his hand he turned and walked out of the room, leaving his two stunned former colleagues looking at each other in wonder.
Walking down the long hallway, he pulled off his ski cap revealing that his usual mop of jet-black hair was now neatly trimmed and looked professionally styled. He ran his hands over the unfamiliar cut, scratching his short sideburns and brushing his bangs to the side. Hesitating for a moment, he reached his hand into his pants pocket and pulled out a small gold disc about the size of a nickel. He rubbed the small disc hard between his fingers, making it vibrate slightly. Then, with a snap of his finger he flipped it into the air with one hand and caught it with the other, before walking it across his knuckles like a magician.
After playing with the disc for a few seconds a light blinked on one side letting him know it was now online. He looked at it very closely to see which side was which before placing it over his right ear with a little click as it snapped into place. The disc sparked his temple and made a quick flash of light in his eyes, disorienting him for just a second. After steadying himself, he shook off the feeling and kept walking down the hallway to the front doors. To no one in particular, he said, “Ready to go?” and walked out the door into the parking lot.
Minds stirred inside the connectome. A subconscious thought burst through to Nadira prefrontal cortex:
“This is all beginning to sound like Numen’s great adventure, not yours,” she said.
“Yes, that is quite surprising, considering all the legends that surround your life. Did Numen plan and execute all of your adventures?” Lanochee asked.
“Being prepared for the unexpected is the essence of life that no one is prepared for,” Yahweh said silently.
Chapter 47
Success depends upon previous preparation, and without such preparation there is sure to be failure.
Confucius, 551-479 BC, Earth
Library of Souls
Anti-Babel
In the main Atlantean subterranean dome complex, Dimitris observed several large ice monitors at once, following the progress of his Lord inside the ‘Cloud of Christ’ as it made its way to New York City. All his life he had dreamt of this very moment. For that matter, everyone who had ever lived in Atlantis over the past two antons of time had dreamt of this very moment in time.
The time of the genesis—the time that would lead to the exodus of humans from Earth to Heaven—was at long last upon them.
Moving excitedly through the icy hallways and corridors of the interconnecting network of storage facilities, workstations and industrial complexes, the Atlantans were busy completing plans that were set into motion before their distant ancestors were born. Long had they been on the sidelines, watching the world around them wax and wane with the flotsam and jetsam of wars and technological developments. Being Homo sapiens like the rest of the people populating the planet, Atlanteans were the cream of the cream as far as intelligence goes, and their ancestors were hand-picked by Numen for their individual superior traits. From birth, each new child Atlantean were schooled in the most advanced mathematics, sciences and engineering imaginable, but still as brilliantly as they could think, they still fell far short of the brain-power that could be mustered by a true superior being, an Elohim, Homo superior—the brain-power needed for the exodus of the Earth to Heaven.
It wasn’t that it was hard to hide themselves from inquiring minds in the perpetual Ice Age at the bottom of the world; every time an explorer came close to their enclave, an inconvenient problem with the weather or equipment could be manipulated by one of the many cherubim monitoring their perimeter. The hard part was watching the rest of the world deteriorate into chaos before their very eyes, while continuing to hide themselves from the growing threat of global annihilation. Until now it had been a toss-up: the world would either blow itself up with atomic weapons, or it would perish from the impending doom of its dying sun exploding into a massive red giant star.
Numen had always kept his plans bottled up inside a tight-knit group of trusted leaders who ran their followers like a family. This was easy enough to do, since indeed, they were all family.
The industrial might of the Atlantean congregation was now running at full capacity, churning out its main product, Anti-Babel cherubim. Millions upon millions had been made over the last anton and were now escaping upon the world in massive latitudinal waves.
“The front wave has already crossed into the northern hemisphere,” said Dimitris’ trusted, soft spoken assistant and daughter, Cassia. “The rest of the world is still in the grips of following our Lord’s cloud but will soon turn its full attention to our Anti-Babel. We will begin to see panic and military action in desperate attempts to stop what they do not know is coming.”
She gestured toward one of the crystalline screens. “Asia, Europe and North America are beginning to feel its looming presence as we speak, father. They are already evacuating to the north in a vain retreat to somewhere safe. I’m seeing entire cities emptying out. They are running like scared stampeding cattle. Do you think our timing will over shadow our Lord’s message?”
“It will definitely keep everyone off balance.”
“Why have we waited so long for our Lord to resurrect? The red giant approaches, does it not?” she asked.
“Our sun will truly erupt, but not for half an anton of time. Why are you so worried?”
“Oh, father. I am so very frightened that all will not go as planned, and my children’s children’s children will never see Heaven because of something I may have done or not perceived.”
Dimitris put a reassuring hand on his daughter’s shoulder and opened his mouth to respond.
“Frightened?” boomed from the corner of the control center.
The voice startled Cassia and Dimitris and they turned to see Rogue drifting through the wall.
“Oh, I am sorry for startling you my dear,” Rogue said, his voice deviously subtle. “What are you so frightened about? Perhaps I can assist?”
“Everything is under control,” Dimitris told the infamous seraph. Although Rogue only popped up visibly from time to time in Atlantis—going back and forth between his master Ra’s ship and Numen’s complex assignments down under where the nitty gritty of putting the Anti-babel was assembled—Dimitris wasn’t surprised to see him now while the cherubim machinery was flowing out across the world at its maximum rate.
“Under control? How lovely. Has your Lord delivered the people of this planet from all of their transgressions?”
“Our Lord Yahweh is giving a press conference at the United Nations building, laying down the conditions for the genesis, and the pathway to Heaven,” Cassia said,
regaining her composure and replacing her soft-spoken demeanor with a stern confidence.
“Now, now. Let’s not get testy. After all, he is but an agent of my master Ra who lies waiting to regain her former glory,” said the smug Rogue.
“Ra is dying, or is already dead for all we know,” Cassia snapped before Dimitris could stop her.
Rogue’s face twisted with concern. “What does this mean? What is your master up to? He doesn’t plan to rob my master of her possessions?”
“No, of course not, “Dimitris said, trying to calm the distraught seraph. “We all love your master Ra as a grandmother. But all things in the universes must come to their inevitable conclusion.”
“So, he is stealing her mantle for his own? Very clever to keep this from me for so long. My prime directive is clear to me now,” Rogue said.
“Numen’s specific instructions are for you to stay out of these matters until you are summoned,” he said firmly. “You cannot assist in any capacity at this stage of the genesis.”
Cassia reached to grab Rogue’s gold colored arm. As her hand contacted him, exploding sparks flung her to the floor.
“We’ll see about that,” Rogue said, vanishing through the wall.
Dimitris fell to his knees beside his daughter. She opened her eyes and struggled to speak.
“I am sorry—”
“Do not be, hush, be quiet.”
“Rogue is—”
“Hush I said. Numen defeated him once, and he will do so again. I am sure of it.”
The obituary chamber continued its slow, rhythmic pulse as they watched the story unfold.
“Are you surprised Numen allowed Rogue so much latitude among his followers?” Nadira asked Yahweh.
