“So what do you hear?” Rodney asked, feeling that Steve had stopped at the best part.
“Mostly it’s like a therapy session, only God already knows all my issues, all my thoughts and feelings, and it’s like I’m just supposed to be honest with it all, as this voice inside my head—that’s far wiser than me—digs for my motivations and relieves me of guilt, doubt and fear.” He stopped and smiled. “You know, even if God wasn’t real, this is working so well for me that I’d still recommend it.” He punctuated this confession with a short laugh.
To Rodney, all of this rang with the sort of promise that he expected would lead to apologies later, but that kind of doubtful thinking had followed him from the old world. He spontaneously translated these thoughts into a proposal, “We need to come up with a new date system, like B.C. and A.D., for this new era and I gotta update my thinking for whatever we call it.”
He looked up at Steve to find his friend staring at him with a funny grin on his face. “What?”
“Nothing, I’m with you. It’s just funny hearing you talk like that,” Steve said. He thought for a moment, “You know, in ancient days they counted history in terms of a king’s reign. We should do that.”
“So this is the second year of the Reign of Jesus Christ in Jerusalem?” Rodney asked.
“The second year of the Reign,” Steve said.
The inventive pair made little of their proposed calendar system that day, but, whenever appropriate, they offered it to anyone who would listen. Over the following months, they found that others had come to similar conclusions, both locally and internationally. Later that summer, as local elections began to take shape and Rodney travelled back to Pittsburgh for national election preparations, the new calendar had taken hold, the year in which Christ took the throne being designated as Year Zero, the year of the first congress as Year One, beginning that January, etc. Keeping the months as before, and starting each year on January 1, would ease the new system into place.
In September, of Year One, Rodney took on the provisional role of National Defense Committee member, an alternative to the Joint Chiefs of Staff, in the old U. S. government. It would function until national elections could be held in January of Year Two. That people throughout the whole world, connected by technology and under the influence of the one King, adopted this dating system oriented to that King, measured the extent of his influence. The entire world, however, did not uniformly yield sovereignty to the King, which explained the need for the National Defense Committee.
The first meeting of the National Defense Committee (NDC) took place in Kansas City, Missouri, early in September. The weather remained docile and consoling, without the harsh drought or scorching heat of the old era, and yet no hint of fall in the air yet either. Kansas City had largely survived the war and disasters, though scars from the war remained on almost every part of town. Because the Dictator’s most intense prolonged assault against the resisters in the old U. S. had focused on Texas, the major cities there had been reduced to the sort of rubble typical of modern warfare. Kansas City had only known a fraction of that destruction and remained recognizable as a modern city.
Not interested in waiting for an arranged flight, Rodney drove his newly acquired electric sedan to Kansas City, only a few hours away. He left the van for Emma, joking that she could fit any number of children or chickens in the back. Her chicken farm had become a success, once they located all the nests tucked away in the barn. Emma had become visibly pregnant, though very satisfied and comfortable with her growing belly.
Flopping his bag onto the bed in a downtown Kansas City hotel, Rodney pulled out his mobile phone to call home and let his wife know he had arrived safely. He stood in the window listening to the dial tone and surveying the city. A swirl of activity west of the hotel, toward the river, drew his gaze, as Emma picked up the phone. As they exchanged greetings and small talk about the trip and things happening on the farm, Rodney felt certain that he could see people flying around what looked like some sort of construction project. The flying objects could not be birds, they were too big and could not be any kind of aircraft, they were too small.
When he said goodbye to Emma, he connected his mobile device to the touch screen monitor in his hotel room, and did a quick map search, to figure out where that unusual activity was taking place. They seemed to be building on the flood plain, where railroad tracks had once run to and from grain storage facilities. Though the map on the Internet had not been updated since the war, and would be only partially accurate, he took note of what he saw, in order to ask about it later.
The first meeting of the provisional NDC was to be informal, over dinner, there at the hotel. Walking into the restaurant at about six o’clock, Rodney looked around for some sign of the gathering. A tall, white-haired man followed him in and did the same survey. Rodney turned to try and make eye contact and found the older man looking at him with a question ready on his lips.
Rodney spoke first. “Are you here for the NDC meeting?”
The man smiled, swallowed his own question, chuckled and cleared his throat. “Yes, that’s what I was just about to ask you.” He extended his hand and Rodney let him speak first this time. “Everett Winslow,” he said, introducing himself.
“Rodney Stippleman,” Rodney said, vigorously shaking the old professor’s hand.
He recognized the name of a very famous academic in the field of International Relations, whom he had seen quoted numerous times by politicians and the mass media, over the years. He had read many articles by the University of Michigan professor, in news magazines and newspapers on line. Discovering that he would be serving on the committee with Dr. Winslow thrilled Rodney like a little kid getting an autograph after a ballgame.
“It’s an honor to meet you, sir,” Rodney said, finally releasing the older man’s boney and wrinkled hand.
“Thanks,” said Dr. Winslow, “I’m so glad to meet you, as well. I witnessed your quick thinking during the attack on the congress and have been an admirer ever since,” he said graciously.
Rodney smiled, a bit embarrassed, but glad to be recognized by the venerable intellectual. When Rodney recovered, somewhat, he noticed a woman in a business suit waving in their direction.
Dr. Winslow said, “I think we are being hailed.”
“Yes,” said Rodney, “I think you’re right.”
They wound through the tables and booths to a line of adjoined tables, in a slight recess at the back of the restaurant. The petite, round-faced woman with straight bangs and collar length hair, greeted them both, introducing herself as Anne Marriman. Rodney recognized her as the coordinator of the committee, who had arranged the meeting schedule and contacted the members over the past few weeks.
The two men took seats across from each other after greeting the only other member already seated. Her name was Denise Stowe, a blonde woman of about thirty-five, with a military bearing, though she wore a casual blouse and slacks. The remaining members arrived gradually over the next ten minutes, until twelve people sat around the table, six men and six women, including Anne, who was not an official committee member.
Over drinks, appetizers, dinner and dessert, Rodney once again stretched his credulity to fit his current place in history, loosening the restrictions of past expectations and old institutions. This gathering looked nothing like pictures he had seen of the old Joint Chiefs, heavily decorated military men (and a rare woman) with stern faces and global responsibilities. The people around him resembled, instead, an academic committee, or at most, a think tank. Few of the members appeared to have military experience and none looked like the stern Generals and Admirals who used to coordinate national defense.
When they had finished eating, Anne stood up and addressed the group. “Well, now that we’ve gotten to know each other a bit, I want to hand out the agenda for the next three days, and get your response to what we’ve arranged. Since this is all new, the President and I are not assuming that our agenda makes perfect
sense, so we’d like your feedback from the start. Please take a look and let me know if there is something missing that we should try to work in, or if anything we’ve included seems out of place here.”
Having served in the military, Rodney had never been given such an opportunity before, but then he had never been in a situation like this. He had been asked for his opinion by Colonels, and even an occasional General, who valued his view from the ground, but he was certain that no political or military committee from the old era, even before the Dictator, ever had such an open invitation to deviate at the start.
At the end of an hour of discussion, the agenda had been gutted, reorganized and revised. Anne typed away on a mobile computer, noting consensus items and unsettled issues, removing half of the items listed and replacing them with nearly as many new ones. The evening ended with more drinks and friendly goodbyes.
Back up in his room, Rodney remembered that construction project he had seen earlier. He parted the curtains and looked to the West again, to see what looked like the same activity continuing, well after nightfall. That nocturnal activity didn’t surprise him, given that immortals were at work, people who never sleep and never grow tired.
The next day, after a long morning session finalizing the agenda and electing officers, Rodney, the newly-elected provisional Director for the National Guard, needed to stretch his legs. Baxter Slatery, the provisional Director of the Navy, asked if Rodney wanted some company, when he saw him heading out of the hotel during the lunch break.
The two men talked, as Rodney steered the course directly toward where he expected to find the immortals’ construction crew. He described what he had seen to Baxter.
“Oh man, that would be fascinating,” said the compact African-American man, who had been in the Coast Guard decades ago. At fifty-five, he appeared in fine physical condition, which he had recently recovered, after a year in military prison, under the Dictator. “I heard about them replanting the forests around the Yellowstone volcano, doing some amazing stuff that would have taken decades to accomplish by natural means.”
Rodney turned down a street named Mulberry, still guessing at the exact location of the project, but he didn’t have to wait for long to see confirmation of his sense of direction. Baxter swore quietly under his breath when a small person flew past, disappearing behind a large warehouse. They walked briskly around that building, feeling slow as slugs compared to the person who had jetted past. When they rounded the corner, they stopped suddenly.
The project appeared to be a massive grain storage building, but the architecture reminded Rodney of a NASA facility. Gleaming silver metal, shining white and glossy black panels and supports, what appeared to be a grand depot for grain, bore the look of a modern sculpture. The more astounding sight, however, distracting from the glory of the structure itself, was the intricate teamwork of aerial acrobats hauling metal and composites with the ease of ants carrying food fifty times their size.
After a few seconds of gawking, they spotted one of the flying artists speeding toward them. Rodney restrained an urge to turn and run for his life, an urge he forgot when he saw the jolly smile on the face of the worker zooming toward him. A boy, about twelve years old, landed in front of them with a solid thud on the gravelly ground.
The boy looked down at his feet and said, as if making a mental note. “Gotta work on new pavement next.”
He looked up at Rodney and said, “You like what you see?”
Rodney nodded. Baxter spoke up. “Are you all kids? I mean young, ah, young people.”
“Kids!” the boy said. “That’s exactly what we are, kids having tons of fun.” He laughed freely.
A chorus of laughter sounded in the background. Baxter and Rodney looked up at the flitting and buzzing work crew, laughing along, as if they heard the verbal exchange from a hundred yards away. Rodney’s curiosity sidestepped any formalities.
“Can they hear us from way over there?” he asked.
“Yep,” said the boy.
“You bet,” said one distant voice.
“Sure can.”
“Yes, sir.”
That chorus of laughers became a chorus of playful respondents.
Baxter caught the contagious laughter and guffawed at the funny repartee of the busy worker children. Rodney looked at him and laughed at his new friend, as much as at the unearthly activity and comical chorus of the workers.
“You want a flyover, to get a better look?” the boy in front of them asked.
“A flyover?” Rodney asked, knowing what the word meant, but wobbling mentally at its application to this situation.
Three more little workers zoomed to the first boy’s side, thudding onto the ground in a neat line to his right. “We’ll fly you over, so you can see our work,” the second boy said.
“Don’t worry, it’s not dangerous,” the third boy said.
“And even if we dropped you, we could heal you right away,” said the girl at the end of the line, laughing at her own joke, as well as the dumbfounded looks on Rodney’s and Baxter’s faces.
Baxter jumped at the offer. “Take me, I’d love to fly with you guys.”
Rodney looked with admiration at the new Director of the Navy’s childlike adventurism. He watched as two of the small workers grabbed Baxter under the arms and lifted him effortlessly off the ground. He shouted jubilantly, as they swooped him forty feet up in the air and then swept him gently toward the massive structure. When Rodney saw that they moved more slowly when hauling a mortal, he softened.
“Well, maybe,” he said, staring after Baxter.
Before he could finish deciding, the other two workers hoisted him off the ground, following the path taken by Baxter and his living twin engines. Rodney was instantly thankful that he hadn’t eaten lunch yet, as he felt his stomach lag behind him. The experience reminded him of an amusement park ride, which he generally would have considered himself too old to even try.
From fifty feet off the ground, the structure looked even more magnificent, swelling curves and twisting lines, plenty of form without entirely disguising the function. Other workers spun around the depot to join as a sort of escort for the two passengers. Rodney forced himself to focus on viewing the huge granary and enjoying the pleasant smiles and cheerful voices of the workers, who greeted him like a long lost relative. He subdued his natural panic at flying so high without a seat belt, or without an entire plane wrapped around him, for that matter.
Baxter whooped and wowed at the sights and the ride, enjoying the experience entirely. Rodney smiled and relaxed a bit more. The worker holding his right arm began to explain the material and the way they manufactured it themselves out of bombed out buildings, burnt out military equipment and wrecked cars. Rodney heard this with an isolated corner of his mind, but his spinning thoughts kept turning around the playfulness of these builders, in contrast to the magnificence of their skill. He wondered if this was because they were children, or if it really had more to do with their immortality and their freedom. He tried to imagine some of the adult immortals flying around this way.
When the flying tour was over, the two children who had been carrying him, a girl no more than ten and a boy of eight or nine, lowered him back to the ground. As his feet settled again onto solid earth, with all its gravity, he felt certain that the adults must have as much fun at being immortal as these children did. He smiled at each of his pilots and thanked them sincerely, with a whiff of regret in his heart.
Within moments, Baxter stood next to Rodney again, both of them staring longingly at the floating, soaring and zooming work crew, back to their craft. They laughed together and wondered aloud about what they had seen, felt and heard, as they walked back toward the hotel.
Baxter said, as they turned up a sunny city street, “When my mother would see something amazing or surprising, she used to always say, ‘well, I never,’” he recalled. “This is one of those moments when I think I understand that phrase more than ever before. I never would
have imagined flying like that, I never would have asked for it and I never would have believed it if I hadn’t seen it for myself,” he concluded, with a laugh.
Rodney supposed that other committee members assumed that he and Baxter had been drinking over lunch, given their response to the lubricated good humor of the two men when they returned. Baxter may have been feeling that same sort of self-consciousness, because he felt compelled to tell the rest of the committee where they had gone before eating lunch. The story seemed so undignified, and off topic, that Rodney winced a bit when he saw Baxter launching into his account, but, whether intentionally or otherwise, Baxter’s story shaped the remainder of the afternoon’s discussion and Rodney was glad it did.
Every grand effort made by mortals since the beginning of the Reign had seemed to Rodney to be an echo of a lost era, or like an old woman talking to a spouse who had been dead for years. Baxter’s tale of the flying construction crew of children buoyed the National Defense Committee and rescued it from being yet another obsolete effort in a transformed world.
The reshaping of the agenda during the earlier meetings had been a sincere effort to carve their work out of the stuff of the current age, of course. The image of an all-child construction crew building a grain storage facility worthy of a modern European sculpture garden, and that image carried airborne on arms of the wingless immortals, helped the well-intentioned members of that committee to shake off pre-reign limits and expectations.
In this era, with the King of Kings on the throne in Jerusalem, how does a mortal nation best defend itself?
“It doesn’t,” Dr. Winslow said, in answer to that question.
Rodney made a half smile at this confirmation of his first impression of the old professor. Here sat a man dedicated to truth and unafraid of the demands imposed by that dedication. Rodney welcomed the venerable company in the space that he had occupied during many such discussions. He had established himself as an effective field commander during years of war because of his courage and his tactical abilities. Navigating into this new era, discerning the significance of the new landscape and choosing the most effective way through, fit Rodney’s talents, which is why he had been elevated to Director of the National Guard, even if only provisionally.
The REIGN: Out of Tribulation Page 35
