by J A Bouma
Lightning flashed behind him through the windows up the stairwell, illuminating the god of knowledge in flickering white light. A few seconds later, thunder rumbled in the distance, bringing Martin out of his trance. He stiffened with purpose and continued down the darkly lit hallway, striding forth to meet his gathered brothers.
A glowing light up ahead pulled him onward, orange and warm. Voices, low and incoherent, were chanting the ancient mantra he knew by heart. A bleating screech sliced through the noise, and he quickened his pace. He reached the heavy, golden door standing ajar and pushed it open. The voices stopped as he entered. Facing him were seventeen Bird-Men, all wearing the face of Thoth.
The god of divine knowledge.
“Brothers,” Martin said, striding toward them. The Bird-Men nodded in silent unison, welcoming their Grand Master.
He stepped into the circular cavern, high and domed. Made out of quarried stone, the room was illuminated by eight windows that flickered every so often with the storm’s light. Thirteen torches displayed around the room offered a soft glow to provide the remaining light. They hung above thirteen small, stone seats upon which bare-chested Bird-Men sat with ornamented shoulder drapes of gold and indigo beadwork, all wearing masks of pure gold, flanked by ribbons of indigo, with beaks of black onyx.
Martin scanned the room, then lifted his head toward the high dome, smiling reverently at the symbol adorning its center: a swastika, made infamous by the radicals of the 20th century. Far from a modern symbol of fascist oppression, it was an ancient religious one, taking the form of the familiar equilateral cross with its four legs bent at ninety degrees. Considered to be a sacred symbol of such spiritualities as Hinduism, Buddhism, and Jainism, it dated back to before the second century BC. Small terracotta pots and ancient coins from Crete were found to have borne the symbol. And it had been used as a decorative element in various cultures stretching back to at least the Neolithic period. For Martin, the symbol held all the divine promises of these pre-modern cultures for such a time as this.
Directly beneath the dome, in the middle of the room, was the crown jewel of the crypt: the ceremonial basin. It acted as a baptismal pool for the rite of passage into the upper echelon of the ancient order of divine knowledge and power.
Tonight, it would be used for a very different purpose, a sacred purpose.
He strode farther into the chamber, the cool, dank air making the silver hairs on the back of his neck stand upright in delight. Seats were arrayed around the outer rim of the room for the Thirteen, the coterie of high-ranking associates representing the Wheel of the Year and the perfection of the earthly and heavenly alignment of seasons. Five more lined the front of the chamber, holding the Council of Five. The seats of the Pentacle, of Man.
Of God.
Martin breathed in deeply and moved toward a throne-like chair in the middle of the Pentacle seats. His chair. He took his place among the Council at the center reserved for the Grand Master. To his right was the ceremonial ibis dress. It mirrored the statue of Thoth he had just passed, white and red plumes, gold mask and all. He smiled and placed the headdress upon his head, then affixed the gold mask to his face, along with an intricately beaded gold and indigo sash hanging at his shoulders.
A small, muffled bleat was heard from the center of the ceremonial basin. He spun toward it and peered through his gold mask, over the onyx beak, to the four-legged victim tied and muzzled in the center of the floor. It strained violently against its restraints, nibbling at the muzzle keeping his mouth tightly closed, as if it anticipated what was impending.
The snapping of the torch flames provided the only sound in the chamber as Martin strolled toward the center, his garment swishing in sync. He untied the animal and undid the muzzle. A bleating, mournful cry instantly escaped its lips.
Out from under his robe, Martin removed a jewel-encrusted athame knife passed down from Grand Master to Grand Master from each successive generation to use in ceremonies such as this one. In one swift swipe, he sliced the blade across the goat’s throat. The bleating stopped as blood spilled from its neck onto the cold, hard stone floor. The animal twitched in his tight grip, then went limp, its life force draining into the baptismal pool.
He withdrew the golden vial from the robe and uncorked it, pouring the contents of his life force into the pool, his blood mixing with that of the goat. The animal was a symbol of purity and preciousness, and the regenerative nature of the Universe, ancient civilizations lionizing the goat as a god of nature—Pan.
The rest of the room silently looked on as their Grand Master performed the necessary sacrificial ceremony in anticipation of the greater good that was to come.
One fueled by fire, now cleansed by blood.
Chapter 13
Mediterranean Outpost.
Alexander led the charge back to the renewed Archives room in the bowels of the deep submergence station, feeling more familiar with the underwater facility now and feeling a surprising rise in duty to resume the mantle he had accepted over a year ago now.
Master of the Order of Thaddeus, ancient defender and contender of the Christian faith, of the Church, of Ichthus—the Christian remnant during these last days.
Weaving through the corridors of steel, the tank of blue iridescent water having calmed now that they were floating and Galileo following their movements again, it surprised Alexander to feel such duty returning, given how he had left things.
After what happened on that beach all those many months ago, the return of his father, compounded by the man’s betrayal of him personally and of Ichthus and the faith—no way was he coming back to lead the charge to contend for the once-for-all faith of God’s holy people, or join the Resistance, or whatever. He was through with it all. Done fighting for the faith. Let someone else traipse through time retrieving the memory of Ichthus and what she believed. That’s what he had felt back then running across the wet sand toward that town in the fading evening light, leaving his friends behind. And his responsibilities to his faith.
But now…with the dawn of the apocalypse rising?
Something about witnessing the devastation wrought across Solterra, knowing the real lives of real people were coming under what appeared to be a ratcheting up of God’s judgment, and then seeing one of his own friends beside himself with worry and agony at realizing his very own homeland and family were experiencing the same devastation―all of it seemed to trigger something inside, activating Alexander to…
Well, to do what wasn’t all that clear at that point in all the crazy as he rounded the final bend. Mostly since what came next wasn’t all that clear as he made for the Archives of the Church’s most sacred creeds and theological treatises and history.
What was the Church to do at the onset of the apocalypse? What were average Christians to do when Jesus Christ split open the seventh seal, that holy hush of trembling, suspenseful anticipation welling up within the hosts of heaven before the seven angels with their seven trumpets of judgment were let loose upon the Republic?
What was he to do, Alexander Zarruq?
He reached the door but realized he couldn’t gain entry. Ford came up to his side, his face blotchy and eyes rimmed with grief. Nia came up to the door bearing one of the powerhouse workstation portables under one arm.
Alexander ran through that question—the one about what he was going to do about the end times—for what seemed like a hundred cycles as he waited for the door to open. The time it took for Nia to slap her hand on the security device, to wait for the pulsing blue to change to green, and finally for the door to unlock cranked up the anxiety around the options that seemed to dwindle down to two.
Fight or flee.
Contend for the faith, for the Republic’s very soul even. Or shrink back to what was left of that seaside wharf at the edge of Roma, scrubbing those blasted barnacles off those blasted hydrocrafts the rest of his life.
The door unlocked and opened. Nia pushed through, followed by Ford.
Soon he would know
his answer.
The Archives was relatively intact, considering the shaking they’d all experienced. Aside from a crack running at one corner of the digital panels on the far-left wall, the place was in order and relatively calm. Father Jim was seated at the steel center table, Rebekah and Lucy still tending to the man who had a piece of bloodied cloth pressed against his head. Even Sasha was calm, lying on the couch behind the table with his hands behind his head.
He sat up when they entered, then asked in a rush, “Is it being over? Are we being safe?”
So much for calm. Although who could blame him, especially if the apocalypse truly was upon Solterra?
“Yeah, about that…” Ford said.
“Da i nyet,” Nia said, going on to explain how she had activated the emergency measures to keep the station stable, for now.
“That is being the da part.”
Sasha sat up straighter. “And what is being the nyet part?”
Ford looked to Alexander. “Care to do the honors, Master Zarruq?”
Alexander took a breath and nodded, then launched into a review of what they had seen. From the drone footage of the Amazon laid waste, charred beyond recognition, to the thunderous roars and phantasmic lightning show, to what looked like craters from meteors of fire being hurled to the earth, the montage of other sites across Solterra all confirming the truth that the destruction was widespread—including Ford’s Noramericana homeland. Looked like much of Earth’s vegetation had been decimated.
The room was silent for it all until Father Jim drew in a stabilizing breath and tilted his head back contemplatively. He closed his eyes and said lowly, “‘Then the angel took the censer, filled it with fire from the altar, and hurled it on the earth; and there came peals of thunder, rumblings, flashes of lightning and an earthquake.’”
Ford swallowed and glanced at Alexander. “That’s what our resident Order Master had quoted. From the Book of Revelation, isn’t that right?”
“Indeed. Chapter 8. The unfolding of the next stage of God’s judgment upon the world.”
“With Ichthus squarely within the same crosshairs.”
The cardinal winced as he adjusted the cloth at his head. “No, that is not correct, John Mark.”
“It ain’t?”
“The Church is not in any way shape or form in the crosshairs, so to speak, of God’s wrath!”
Nia said, “But you were saying earlier that we were meant to experience the Great Tribulation!”
“Not experience it, as the unregenerate do, as judgment for their wickedness and under the wrathful hand of the Lord. But live through it, endure and persevere through it. The previous chapter before the trumpets presaging the Great Tribulation, chapter 7, makes this clear.”
“In what way?” Alexander asked.
“We find two multitudes representing Ichthus from two vantage points of the coming apocalypse. The 144,000 from all the tribes of Israel representing the Church who are sealed by the Lord Almighty that they might be protected from the plagues expressing God’s wrath upon the rising Antichrist and his followers. Then there is Ichthus on the other side of the Tribulation, those who have washed their robes in the blood of the lamb, the believers who have suffered persecution and martyrdom under the mighty hand of the Antichrist, yet are victorious. So no, the end times are not meant for the Church, but they will live through them, and in complete victory.”
“And that’s what you think is happening?” Alexander said. “We are now in fact living through the end times—the Church is, Ichthus?”
“And us fine folks?” Ford said, throwing Alexander a glance.
“I don’t know how else to interpret it!” Father Jim exclaimed, his voice rising and all at once cracking and shaking, betraying a level of fear and concern he had not openly confessed. “Consider the manner in which the world quaked and trembled the past day. With the day-lit sky fading into darkness and the moon turning blood red—fitting the apocalyptic description of Revelation 6:12 to a T.”
“Which was only ever thought to be just that,” Alexander responded, “apocalyptic language.”
“Apparently such language was far more accurate to the truth of the matter, my boy. And then for the world to witness the cataclysmic decimation of a third of the world’s vegetation—it fits perfectly!”
“We are not having confirmation of that yet,” Nia corrected, a command to her voice that signaled she wasn’t interested in speculation. “Cataclysmic decimation, da. But how much or widespread isn’t being for certain. We are needing more information from the field.”
Ford complained, “Which we’re not going to get stuck in this tin can 20,000 leagues under the sea!”
Alexander nodded. “You’re right. We should probably think about heading back up to the surface soon. Or at least connecting with the Resistance somehow through secure Ministerium channels on DiviNet.”
Father Jim waved a dismissive hand, wincing again. “Be that as it may, given what we already know, what we have witnessed with our own eyes and the communication already sent our way from the Resistance, I cannot imagine what has transpired across the Republic the past day is anything else besides the unfolding of that dreadful yet glorious day when the Lord Almighty finally comes to do what he promised from the beginning.”
“And what is that being?” Nia asked, her voice less hardened than before, arms at her side now and head cocked and ready for some sort of revelation.
“Why, to judge the world, unfold his wrath upon wicked humanity, and recreate the world as he intended it to be at the start of this whole bloody human affair before we vandalized it all to hell!”
The woman went to the table and slung her portable workstation on top. “I am thinking we are needing some sort of confirmation. Mr. Ford—” she said, motioning toward the man.
He raised a brow and glanced at Alexander, mouthing ‘Mister?’
Alexander smiled, a chuckle slipping through as the man sauntered over.
“What can I do you for, little missy?”
“You and the cardinal were in continued communication with Ministerium contacts in the last several months, da?”
“Da. I mean, yes.”
“How were you getting in touch with them?”
Ford looked to Sasha. “The good doc over yonder set up a secure nodule, or something or other.”
Sasha shook his head and hopped to his feet. “It is being node, not nodule.”
“Whatever. Node, then. But what about your own contacts? The Resistance that sent in all the intel from earlier?”
Nia said something to Sasha and stepped aside as he came up to the computer. He hunched over its keyboard and started clacking away.
She said, “It is not being easy to reach the Resistance. They are being underground and scattered about. I am thinking it is easier to be reaching Ministerium agents who are being more accustomed to answering the call of duty from afar.”
Ford said to Sasha, “Well, what are you able to finagle there, doc?”
Alexander watched the man work, a series of windows filled with correspondence and images coming in and out, much the same as they had seen before.
He said, “We’ve seen much of this already. Not much more can be gleaned from images and video files. Anyone we can connect with?”
Sasha straightened and brought a hand to his chin. “There is not much activity on the comm channel, I am being afraid. Other than—” He hunched back over, clacking again on the keyboard. “I am finding one person. Somewhere in the province of Georgia, in Nor—”
“Georgia?!” Ford exclaimed, shuffling over and shoving Sasha out of the way.
The man gave a startled cry, tripping over his feet and falling to the floor. Father Jim protested, so did Nia.
Ford ignored them. “It’s a distress call…” He went to press it when Nia swatted his hand away.
He spun toward her with irritation. “Hey! What the hot Hades—”
“I am not so sure that is being a good idea,�
� she said, folding her arms and staring him down.
“Why not?”
“Because we are not sure what the Republic is doing right now under these extreme circumstances. They are having to be thinking something is up. They may even be blaming Ichthus for all the trouble.”
Ford scoffed. “Should be blaming the Lord Almighty, is who they should be blaming!”
“I am not disagreeing,” Nia said, crossing herself and mumbling something in her Muscovia tongue. “At any rate, Solterra could be monitoring our Ministerium communications.”
“And when has that stopped us before?”
“Perhaps she’s right, Ford,” Alexander said. “Maybe we take this one with a bit more caution.”
“I aint runnin’ scared down no beach just because the Republic might be on my tail.”
That one stung, a clear reference to him abandoning them those many months ago.
“Besides,” Ford went on, “we agreed we need actual eyes and ears on the ground, telling us what the hot Hades is going on!”
“I have to agree with John Mark here,” Lucy said.
“Thank you! Now can I help our brother out—or sister, as the case may be—and answer the damn comm call?”
Father Jim cleared his throat and threw him a reproachful eye at the language.
He took a breath and dipped his head. “Sorry. But can I see why someone from Noramericana is using our secure line to try to get ahold of the few remaining Ministerium homies this side of the Atlantic?”
The cardinal glanced at Nia, then at Alexander, who gave a subtle nod of approval. He did the same.
Ford punched the alert to the blinking incoming call. “Glad we ran that one by committee when the world is—”
He stopped mid-sentence, the scene on the workstation monitor taking all of their breaths away.
“Fire…” Alexander said, barely above a whisper, finishing the sentence and horrified at what he saw.
Inferno more like it, devilish tails of orange and crimson in the near distance rising and falling in swirling waves, smoke thick and bitter billowing high into the sky. Looked like a small city was being consumed by the blaze, older buildings of stone and wood along with ultramodern ones of gleaming glass and polished chrome eaten alive by the hungry flames of fire. Beyond was the now familiar scene of leveled trees and consumed hillsides, blackened by fiery consumption.
