by Mark Kraver
“Are our DNA telomeres the structures you manipulated so we can all live that long?” she asked.
Numen nodded again but did not sense the need to elaborate on the biochemical pathways of DNA telomere manipulation at this time.
“So much for the land of milk and honey. That would mean the human race will only survive into the first part of the twenty-second century,” said Conrad.
“There will be selected individuals—” Numen said, focusing on Mac who was standing next to the couch, listening intently.
“Like my mother and father?” Logan interrupted.
“—who will be allowed to procreate, keeping the species viable,” Numen explained.
“That’s right. You need us for breeding stock,” she said.
“Let him talk,” Mac insisted. His interest in who those selected individuals would be took both Logan and Conrad by surprise.
“One hundred and forty-four thousand virgins, equally divided between all the countries of the world, will be recruited to begin the first generation of Elohim upon this planet. These new superior intellects will be assigned tasks beyond your species’ mental capacity; they are essential to the salvation of this planet and all its inhabitants. If a country cannot or will not meet their quota, then their allotment will be shared with the rest of the world, equally, and they will not participate in any future Elohim breeding programs.”
He paused and looked intently at Logan. “But fear not, Dr. Logan, the threat of ostracism will trigger deeply set genetic behaviors that will ensure their participation. After all, no country or set of peoples will want their individual genetic memory lost to time immemorial.” Numen folded his hands. “Now I believe we are finished. It is time for my master Yahweh to sleep.”
The sounds of his name perked up Yahweh ever so slightly. “I will not be seeing you again,” Yahweh said to Logan. Telepathically he added: “I am sorry to leave under such circumstances. Our daughter will be as beautiful as you.”
With that, Numen clapped his hands together over his head causing a gigantic thunderclap. When the concussive wave passed, Yahweh and Numen were gone.
“Holy shit,” Mac said.
“How long will he sleep this time?” Logan asked Mac.
“One thousand years.”
“That’s one hell of a nap.”
On the large wall-hung television, a news flash caught everyone’s attention. CNN’s Chick Blizzard interrupted the previously scheduled telecast by announcing:
“Israel—Israel is being attacked in an all-out missile barrage that, according to our sources in the Pentagon, is coming from Iran…”
Chapter 59
Hope is the pillar that holds up the world. Hope is the dream of a waking man.
Pliny the Elder, 23-79, Earth
Library of Souls
Tower of Babel
The President sat in the Situation Room staring at the monitors and listening to all the chatter coming in from around the world. The room was more crowded than usual, and it bothered him. He could remember a picture he saw of the Russia situation room. What he wouldn’t do for a place like that right about now. Spacious, airy, people not bumping into each other everywhere. Less chaotic. He had a hard time even thinking in this damned place.
“Okay,” he grumbled, “let's get some of these damn chairs out of here. You’re not sitting in them anyway. And why does this table have to be so big in such a small room? Whose idea was this tiny room in the first place?”
No one dared to answer. It seemed a strange thing to say given all the problems they were juggling at that moment around the world.
“The Israeli Iron Dome Missile Defense System has repelled sixty-six incoming Iranian missiles,” reported Chief Master Sergeant Burger. “It is only letting the ones that will hit in non-populated areas through.”
“How long will the dome last?” the President asked.
“Maybe up to a couple hundred targets,” the chief estimated. “It’s hard to say.”
“The fleet is trapped in the gulf with that damned blackout to the south and hostiles to the North,” General Cathguard said, wincing as he adjusted his bandaged shoulder sling. “The Iranians can sustain their offensive on Israel longer than we can defend against it from the sea. Their northern mountainous territory extends all the way to Turkey, for God’s sake. We should concentrate our firepower in the north, hoping to hit their final strike capabilities if the blackout shuts us down in the gulf.”
“Yes, but anything above the thirty-third parallel wouldn’t matter,” Burger said.
“What?” Cathguard asked.
“The blackout is traveling along the latitudes.”
“Yes, yes, everyone here knows that. What’s your point?”
“My point is, General, we do not have to concentrate our firepower any further north of the thirty-third parallel. Israel doesn't exist north of those coordinates. From ballistic test results performed on the blackout in Panama, any missiles fired at Israel after the it has passed will, in theory, be ineffective.”
Cathguard grunted his approval. “That means we can forget about bombing the crap out of Tehran.”
“And we wouldn’t have to worry about anything south of the thirtieth parallel because that is both the north end of the Persian Gulf and the southern border of Israel,” the chief added.
“Concentrate all the fleet’s firepower on everything between the thirtieth and the thirty-third parallels, and hope to God we can hit something significant,” the President ordered.
Cathguard frowned. “If we launch all our fighters from the gulf fleet, it’ll be a one-way ride, landing in Incirlik Air Base on the border with Turkey and Syria. Even with extended fuel tanks that’ll be a tough call.”
“Do it,” the President ordered. “We are in a use-it-or-lose-it situation. We need to stop those bastards from nuking Israel anyway we can.”
Cathguard pointed a finger at his nameless assistant, and then nodded his head at the President to confirm the orders were being implemented.
“Has Russia or China tried nuking these damn blackouts yet?” the President asked, but no one had any confirmation. “Come on people, information, please.” He reached out and touched Cathguard’s bandage. “What happened to your arm?”
“I zigged when I should have zagged,” Cathguard said, grinning a grimacing smile.
“Does it hurt?”
The general assured the President he was okay by shrugging his shoulder; which made it hurt like hell. “We have not gotten any confirmation of any nuclear detonation anywhere,” Cathguard said, rubbing his broken collarbone gently.
“Yeah, I knew that wouldn’t work” the President said, frowning at Freddy Faraday across the room. “I wasn’t crazy about nuking another country either.”
“I bet the Revolutionary Guard are holding their nukes back until the end. That means the launch site is in that narrow band of latitudes,” General Stout, Army Joint Chief said, looking up at the map of Israel superimposed over the missile trajectories from Iran.
“What about the blackout? How do we stop it?”
“Unknown,” Cathguard said.
“Would you stop saying that?” the President said. “I want answers, and I want them now. If we can’t stop it then how do we contain it? I’ll be in my office when you figure out more.” He walked to the door and scanned the crowded room once more. “God, I need a shower,” he said smelling his own body odor.
The President stepped quickly down the short hallway and into the elevator. He exited on the main floor of the White House next to his private dining room, and dashed into the bathroom, cracking a fart on the way in. After using the toilet, he washed his hands and splashed water into his eyes to clean the pasty crud that one accumulated with hours of staring at computer monitors. Then he walked into the Oval Office and shut the door.
“Hello, Mr. President.”
“Ajax? What are you doing here?” the President said, immediately recognizing him, then looking
around the room, wondering how he had managed to get into his private office. Feeling a bit awkward, the President walked past the couch on which Ajax sat and to his desk, smiling all the way. He was trying to get his finger on the panic button before something unthinkable happened. He had already been warned about Ajax DiRoma, the Atlantean, by the secret service following some strange revelations he’d made to the Dr. Hammond ad-hoc think tank and the golden disc on his head. Sitting down, the President pressed the red panic button under the edge of the Resolute Desk with a sigh of relief.
Ajax sat on the couch without saying a word for a few moments before addressing the President. When he spoke, his voice was warm and even. “Mr. President, I’m not sure what you have heard about me, but I assure you I am not here to harm you or any citizen of this country in any way.”
“Then why are you here, Mr. DiRoma?” the President asked, with his eyes shifting right and left. Why, he wondered, wasn’t half the army already through the door by now, for God’s sake? He took a breath and focused on sounding calm. “Aren’t you a lobbyist—or something else?”
“Lobbyist? No, that’s funny. I’m here to let you know not to worry about what you are calling a blackout. Or Judgement Day, Armageddon, the end of the world. It’s all a matter of perspective, I assure you.”
“Perspective?”
“That’s right. It’s from what side of the Anti-Babel you are standing. On this side you could see it as something horrible, but the other side, there’s quite a different point of view.”
“Anti-Babel?” the President asked, pushing the panic button a few more times.
“Oh, that’s what we call it from where I come from. The opposite of Babel is Anti-Babel. Get it?”
The President shook his head. Stalling for time, he asked, “Why don’t you fill me in a little?”
“All right. You are familiar with the tower of Babel?”
“Yes, yes, of course. That is where God came down and confused everyone’s speech.”
“Correct. So, an Anti-Babel would be?”
“Where God puts everyone back on the same page?” he said, now holding his finger on the red panic button.
“Not exactly God, but you get the picture. See, not such a threat after all. Just a convergence of understanding.”
“And where is it that you come from?”
“Well, Atlantis, as I believe you’ve already heard” Ajax smiled.
“Uh huh, the lost city of Atlantis,” the President said with one eyebrow raised, in full-fledged crazy alert. “And now how do we stop it?”
“Atlantis was never lost. Oh, you mean the Anti-Babel. Why would you want to stop it?”
“Because it is coming at us, and we do not want it to arrive on our shores, that is why. Good God man, the world is in a panic. Riots, looting, stampedes across the borders. Can you blame them? They’re all running for their lives. Running away from this thing, whatever it is. Life as we know it is ceasing to exist right before our very eyes.”
“You’ve got a point, I’ll give you that much,” Ajax said with a slight nod of his head in agreement. An awkward moment of silence fell on the room.
The President suddenly stood up from behind his massive antique desk and started stomping toward the door. “Where the hell is everyone?” he growled, while keeping one fearful eye on the psycho perpetrator sitting alone on the couch. Ajax looked serene, his legs crossed, and his hands folded in his lap.
“Oh, they aren’t coming,” Ajax said, as the President reached the door, flung it open with his gut screaming Run, and a healthy fight-or-flight gush of adrenaline coursing through his veins.
“What?” the President asked, peering down the long-abandoned hallway.
“I said they aren’t coming.”
“I heard you the first time.”
“Then have a seat. I need to fill you in on more of the details.”
“The hell with that, I’m out of here,” he said, stepping hastily into the hallway. Almost immediately he was confronted by an angry flying cherub.
“What the hell is that?” shouted the President, falling backwards through the Oval Office doorway, trying to avoid the creature.
“Oh that? Looks like a flying naked baby to me. It’s a cherub,” Ajax said, standing now. “He doesn’t look very friendly to me either.”
“I-can’t-let-u-leave,” grunted the cherub’s fat lips.
The sight of seeing something so bizarre shocked the President of the United States of America into a speechless stupor.
“Come on, sit down,” Ajax said, gesturing to the couch facing his. “We’ve got a lot to discuss, like the resurrection of our Lord, the lost city of Atlantis, a survey of the world’s assets, countries without borders, the Elohim on Earth, the Earth’s Exodus. You know, boring stuff. You aren’t afraid of a little policy change, are you? After all, you did say you wanted change in your last campaign speeches, didn’t you?”
“Exodus?” the President questioned.
“Yes, that is where Earth goes to Heaven.”
“Wait, I thought it was the other way around.”
“Well you know, a couple of thousand years of history here, a couple of thousand years of history there, things can kinda get mixed up.”
The President sat on the couch opposite Ajax and looked around the room for the little flying freak. After a few seconds, he placed his hands together and touched his lips like he was praying. “Okay,” he said quietly, “the ball’s in your court.”
The cherub reappeared over Ajax’s shoulder, shielding his mouth with its little hands like it was whispering something into Ajax’s ear.
“Just in time,” Ajax said, clapping his hands together like he was ready to get the show on the road. “Let’s see, Mr. President, may I direct your attention to the television monitor?”
Waving his hand like a game show host, the large monitor on the wall blinked on. All over the screen was Al Jazeera news network with coverage of interviewed witnesses who had seen the supernatural event that had taken place at the Kaaba in Mecca, Saudi Arabia.
The English-speaking version of the Arab news channel was devoting all its attention to the visitation of the Prophet Jesus praising the Kingdom of Islam for its devotion and its tireless pursuit of the word of God. The coverage started in the middle of an interview.
“…and he said, the radical interpretations of the Koran are not helpful nor necessary to lead the rest of the world’s populations to Heaven…” The middle-aged man’s eyes were wide as he spoke to the reporter, evidently still feeling stunned by what he had witnessed.
“It looks like your Lord is making his rounds” said the President.
“Our Lord,” insisted Ajax with a stern look.
“Is that what he wants us to call him?”
“I’m sure he doesn’t care what you call him. He is what he is. A citizen of the Elohim, and he commands our respect, for he and his children will lead us all to Heaven.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Chapter 60
The care of human life and happiness, and not their destruction, is the first and only object of good government.
Thomas Jefferson, 1743-1826, Earth
Library of Souls
Poison the Well
Walking through the elevator doors, the President had exactly four seconds of silence before being blasted by the Situation Room. Inside, instantly he found himself navigating his way through a barrage of reports from military personnel.
“The blackout passed the Tropic of Cancer and is accelerating. We’ve lost contact with the fleets in the Arabian Sea and the Indian Ocean. Doctors Logan and Conrad are missing. Satellites are not detecting any nuclear detonation anywhere. The Russian president has indicated they are looking at their own nuclear deterrent. Three Iranian missiles have penetrated the Iron Dome in northern Israel, and the Israeli Prime Minister has been calling nonstop. Air Force One is waiting at Anderson, your family is already on board.”
“Satellite activity in Argentina is showing marked increase in farming activities. The Governors of Florida, California, and Texas declared martial law. We’ve lost all contact with Hawaii. The National Guard is reporting stand still traffic on all the Interstates and major northbound arteries to the Canadian border. The Canadian Prime Minister has abandoned border checkpoints; he’s declared a state-of-emergency and wants to know your next move. The aliens were last seen in Mecca and are broadcast all over Al Jazeera.”
Once he made it to his command chair, the President stood stiffly looking at it like he wasn’t sure whether to sit or stand. He didn’t notice all the chairs had been removed from the room except his. Still standing, his concentration was abruptly broken by complete silence.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Were you saying something to me?” the President asked, sitting down in his chair and looking up at all the blank faces staring at him. No one said a word, sensing there was something wrong with their Commander in Chief. He nodded as if their silence had answered his question and spoke again. “I was just visited by Ajax DiRoma.”
He wanted to say something about the flying naked baby, but instead stopped mid-sentence and looked around the room with shifting worried eyes, still not believing what he himself had seen just minutes earlier. “Does anyone know who DiRoma is?” As he said “DiRoma,” he touched his right forehead, indicating where Ajax had one of those gold discs.
Several people around the room who had either personally worked with him or had read the Hammond Report murmured to acknowledge that they knew who he was referring to.
