Godschild Covenant: Return of Nibiru

by Marshall Masters

  “Breakfast drink, C-Rations, real cigarettes, a carton no less, and the first joint I've had in longer than I care to remember. So how come I'm gettin’ this five star treatment? I mean, it ain't like we've known each other since whenever, you know."

  Vigo sighed heavily. “I suppose I could tell that you're good for my business, and there is truth to that, being that ELMOs have the highest priority for about most anything. However, it really goes back to my late wife, Elizabeth. She was badly burned in one of the first quakes; the docs said she had second and third degree burns over most of her body and that she wouldn't make it. Hell, most of the hospitals in the area were nothing but piles of stone and dead bodies; we were lucky to get any kind of care as it was. After the shock wore off, they kept her doped up so she wouldn't feel the pain and told me she didn't have long. Then, this hospice worker came to see us. She was a special kind of person. I'll always be grateful to her for helping my Elizabeth to pass on."

  “So you're being kind to me as some way to repay a debt you feel you owe?” Anthony asked softly.

  “No, it's bigger than that."

  “What do you mean?"

  Vigo removed his cap and wiped his forehead. “Folks like you, sir, are real special. Guys like me, we just sit next to someone who is dying and our jaws flap with stupid nonsense, like some damn goldfish out of water. We try to say all the right things, but we can't take away the fear. Most times, we just try to say what we think they'll want to hear, and in the end it is the one dying who has to comfort our own fears.” He shook his head, and put the cap back on. “Oh hell, I'm babbling like some mushy fool."

  “No, you're not,” Anthony injected. “Continue."

  “Well, I see what you do. How you comfort people who want to die. I remember when the assisted suicide amendment became possible when we signed on to the UNE treaty. Man, was I ever stunned. But with all this death and suffering going on, it was the right thing to do."

  “But I'm no saint, Vigo.” Anthony said with a heavy sigh. “Fact is, I'm just a draftee."

  “No sir,” Vigo disagreed, “you're more than that. I heard about you and all you've done in New York. You're like that hospice worker that helped my Elizabeth, but she didn't have your gift."

  “Maybe she did, Vigo."

  “No, sir, the way I hear it, you can place your hand on somebody's shoulder and in no time at all their fears of dying just melt away. Folks say they just look off into the distance at nothing much in particular and smile because they're ready to end their lives without any more suffering. Yes, sir, you got a powerful gift."

  “Does that make you afraid of me?” Anthony asked hesitantly.

  “Before I lost my Elizabeth, I'd probably have been, but, now I know now that you couldn't do what you do if there was a shred of evil in your soul. It just wouldn't work. No sir, you got a gift. A gift from God."

  Anthony flipped the remains of the cigarette to the ground, and jumped down from the boulder. “You call it a gift. I call it something else.” He patted his shirt pocket with the cigarette package. “I don't care what you say, I owe you for the smokes, and I'll make good.” With a friendly smile, Anthony held out his hand in a gesture of friendship.

  Without thinking twice, Vigo reached out, accepted his hand and suddenly felt a tingling energy that traveled from Anthony's hand through his own and up to the base of his skull. Alarmed by the sudden invasion of his body, Vigo tried to pull back, but felt paralyzed. He was anchored to Anthony's strong grip as though a huge electric magnet had captured him like a pile of iron scrap. It was irresistible.

  As the energy flowed through his shoulders and into the base of his neck, Vigo thought to himself, “Oh crap, this kid is more evolved than we thought. Damn, how could I be so careless? Damn! Damn! Damn!"

  Then, the energy flowed up to the scalp, causing him to arch his head backwards as Anthony began to probe his short-term memory. Vigo labored to break free as his consciousness filled with a white light. It was bright and pure, but not blinding, and his mind emptied to nothingness. His last conscious thought was “I wonder if this is what's it like when a bullet rips your head open? Is this what the men at the other end of my sniper rifle experience when I take their lives?” Then, there was just an awareness of being. Vigo could not form a complete thought, but he could sense Anthony probing his mind.

  Anthony had expected the military to send a hick sergeant to pick him up, but this man's mind was exceptionally well trained and focused and he glimpsed fleeting images of Vigo's memories from the night before.

  He saw him shoot three black marketers from long range with a silenced, Barrett .50 caliber sniper rifle. He then watched as he loaded their ill-gotten booty into the back of the truck, which included a few cases of cigarettes, no doubt those he'd passed around that evening. Then he saw Vigo's memory of their meeting with the base XO back at Livermore.

  Vigo despised the man because of the way he abused his authority, and here was a clear image. Anthony saw that he knew the major used his position to sleep with the women under his command and that Vigo tolerated it because the major was useful, but useful for what? The memories didn't go any further than that. Yes, this man, who could murder black marketers in cold blood before stealing their booty, had an incredibly well trained mind. If Vigo was really a sergeant, Anthony was the King of England.

  Tired from his effort, Anthony released his grip and Vigo staggered backwards. The sergeant quickly fought to regain control of his own mind as his thoughts filled with rage over the way he'd been violated, which left him feeling mentally raped. Worse yet, he'd lost his position. The truth of it was that the handler had allowed himself to been handled. It was his worst nightmare come true, and he had to deal with it, or it would deal with him and not too kindly.

  Anthony turned his back on Vigo and walked towards a larger boulder just off the side of the road, several yards away from the truck. He knew Vigo was armed; if he were going to kill him, it would happen now. If he had to go, an angry man with a loaded pistol and a grudge would be hopefully quick.

  It wasn't a 9mm slug that tore through the back of his skull with a final, blinding white flash of hot metal. Rather, it was a paralyzing electrical wave. Anthony's legs fell out from underneath him as he fell to the ground like a broken rag doll. Completely limp and unable to move his arms or legs, he just lay there—helpless. Even glancing sideways was difficult, but he managed to see the Sergeant tuck a platinum-colored medallion inside the open collar of his shirt as he reached down to hoist him up. Is that what he had used against him?

  The tables had turned suddenly, and Vigo was in control now. He softly whistled the “Colonel Bogey March” from the film “Bridge on the River Kwai” as he dragged Anthony's paralyzed body to a smooth, flat side of a roadside boulder that faced towards the East and the coming dawn. With tender care, he sat him upright with his back against the cool, smooth rock face and carefully laid Anthony's limp hands on his lap.

  “You'll be OK in twenty minutes or so,” Vigo finally said. Reaching back into his shirt pocket, he withdrew a small inhaler and squirted a few sprays in Anthony's nose. “It helps to keep the sinuses open.” Anthony felt his breathing become less labored.

  Stepping back, Vigo stuck the inhaler back in his shirt without dropping his focus on Anthony's eyes. “You won't be able to speak or move for a bit, so let's say I have your undivided attention right now."

  “So now you know I'm killing black marketers and stealing their booty. You must think I'm hoarding a rather impressive cache of contraband instead of turning it in. If you do, I wish my life were just that simple."

  Vigo walked back to the truck and took out a plastic bottle of mineral water and a small cup. Continuing to whistle the “Colonel Bogey March,” he took his time walking back to Anthony. Settling down in directly in front him on the ground, he crossed his legs Yoga-style and smiled.

  He poured a small amount of water into the cup and held it up to Anthony's lips. “Take a small s
ip. It will help with your dry throat.” Anthony sipped the water gratefully. “Am I going to tell you what hit you? No.” He refilled the cup to the brim and took a deep drink. Wiping his mouth, he recapped the bottle and placed it between his legs. “So now you've got the goods on me. All you've got to do is to tell the right someone about my nasty little secret and I'm toast, which is exactly what would happen."

  Anthony wanted to scream so badly it consumed his mind. Yet, all he could do was to blink and roll his eyes to keep them from becoming dry.

  “But then again,” Vigo continued, “If I was a real pirate, you'd be buzzard meat right now and without much ceremony, I might add. So, I guess that brings us to the question of who am I.” He closed and rolled his eyes, and slowly rolled his head clockwise around his shoulders. Anthony could hear the small telltale cracking sounds and knew that despite his calm, friendly poker face; the man was obviously stressed and working his way up to something.

  With a slow exhale, Vigo intoned, “Well then, you could say I'm a spook.” Raising his head upright, he slowly opened his eyes and focused his eyes upon Anthony. “I'm actually a full bird colonel assigned to the National Reconnaissance Office, or NRO for short. Now while you know me as Master Sergeant Vigo Jones, they know me as Colonel Arthur Jones.” He leaned forward with a somber face. “If you value your life, you will continue to know me as Master Sergeant Vigo Jones. Let's be honest. If they, and we're talking about the miserable shits who stuck you in this hell, even suspected how far your abilities have evolved, you will be toast as well, my young friend."

  Vigo leaned back, took a deep clearing breath and relaxed his face with a self-sure smile. “So then, Anthony, my lad, let's just say that we're both playing a deadly game of blackmail. If we betray each other, we will share the same destiny. Think of it this way: This is why tabletop toasters have two slots in them. You're one slice and I'm the other."

  Opening his large shirt pocket again, Vigo plucked out a neatly trimmed, half-smoked Churchill cigar and a small box of wood matches. “And since we are past the pretenses now, I can at least do something I really enjoy once in a great while."

  He wove the flaming match in small circles around the end of the cigar till it came to life with a gentle, red glow. It was then that Anthony noticed something interesting about the man. He liked pockets. There were pockets all over his pants and shirt, and all were oversized and showed a manageable bulge. Was it because Vigo liked to cling onto things, or was it because he just liked having his things about him? Still, it was the first honest thing he'd seen about this man since the moment they met on the tarmac.

  Puffing the stogie to life with gentle puffs, Vigo continued. “I've known you since you were fifteen years old, shortly after you wound up in the Hillview Orphanage outside of Austin. It was a damn shame about your family, Anthony. You were just a normal kid seeking love at a high school prom with a girl who was treating you like a dimwitted fool. Then, you come home to find that your family had died in a horrible auto accident. By the way, would you like to know what happened to Jenny Teal, the girl who asked you to the prom? Just blink twice for yes—once for no."

  Anthony blinked twice.

  “She knew your parents had postponed a family trip so you could take her to the prom when all she wanted to do was to make her ex-boyfriend jealous. When she learned that they died, a part of her died too. After you wound up in the orphanage, she soon started acting strange and taking drugs. She was in and out of clinics for two years until one night, when she finally ended it all with an overdose. All these years, I've wondered if you would feel sorry for her. Do you?” Anthony blinked twice for the second time. “A lot?” He blinked twice for the third time.

  “I admire that in you, Anthony,” he said in a respectful tone as he laid down his cigar on a flat stone. “I also respect the fact that you chose to stay in an orphanage instead of a foster home or with your spinster aunt. Of the three options, you chose the right one.” He put the cup to Anthony's lips and tipped it gently for another sip. “Unfortunately, though, you've piled a good many layers of concrete over your soul to shield yourself from ever being hurt again. Of course, the shrinks make a nice living just writing about stuff like this, but let's look at it in layman's terms."

  Vigo placed the cup back on the ground; then held up his hands opposite of each other and evenly spread his thumbs and fingers apart. “What you've done Anthony, is that you've turned your life into a holographic fish tank.” He brought his thumbs together tip-to-tip. “This is you in the center of the tank. Your tank, Anthony.” Vigo then closed together the remaining fingertips, forming an enclosure. “Some may think that you've built your tank not so that people could look at you swimming about inside your tank, but rather you've built it so that you can look out. While you enjoy being able to view life up close and personal, you only do it through the holographic portals in your barrier."

  Vigo picked up his cigar again, puffed it back to life with an obvious sense of enjoyment and blew a perfect smoke ring. “You know who I envy? Folks who can't blow perfect smoke rings because they've got a good reason not to smoke.” He shook himself and rolled his shoulders. “Back to the topic at hand, lad. Deep down inside that bunker you've built around your soul, there is an ever-present cry of hope that someone will crash through your bunker and make you feel really connected again. While I sincerely hope that happens for you, I have to tell you what you already know. Your little bunker is why you are so incredibly gifted. It is always easier to see life from a distance, as well as what lies beyond."

  “Enough of that deep, dark stuff. No doubt, you're sitting there wondering just how in the hell I know all this, so let's open our history books and flip to page one.” He took a few deep puffs and continued. “At the orphanage, you liked to hang out in the kitchen with the cook, Annabelle Browning. What you didn't know about Annabelle was that she was a retired Navy intelligence officer. She could have done something more interesting than cooking three squares a day for orphans, but that was what she wanted to do. Go figure.” He paused thoughtfully for a moment. “You know, my dear old dad used to tell me that he knew for certain the day men would finally figure women out. It would be the day before the end of the universe, so I guess the moral is that we're OK as long as we stay in the dark."

  Vigo chuckled, picked up the cup in his other hand and drained the last of the water. “Well, it seems that good old Annabelle used to work with Remote Viewers for a while; she spotted your Indigo aura right off and called it in. After that, you were assigned to me. I used to specialize in you new millennium types back then, and you were just one of many for me. However, I could see your gift straight off. That's why I had Annabelle take special care of you. She would have done that anyway, because she loved you like a son, although she never told you. I want you to know that I offered to pay her but she wouldn't take it. Instead, she made me promise that I'd see to it that you'd get every chance to make a life of your own. That's why I'm sorry to tell you that she was killed last year during a tornado. Tore her house to smithereens and they found her body four miles away. Not a scratch on it. Damn funny, them twisters."

  He looked into Anthony's eyes. “I can tell you're not blinking enough.” He pulled a small vial of artificial tears out of one of his pockets and dropped the solution into his eyes. “Does that feel better?” Anthony blinked twice for the fourth time.

  “Glad to hear it. No point in being uncomfortable.” He tucked the vial back into his pocket. “After you were old enough to leave Hillview, I assigned my best operative to you—Roxanne.” He noticed how Anthony's eyes widened and his eyebrows rose slightly. He would be talking soon. “Yes, Roxanne LeBlanc. You slept with her all the way through college and well after that. Yes, dear Roxanne. Gorgeous, vivacious, tantalizing, all this she was, and with no strings. No uncomfortable attachments or games. God, she was a piece of work to be sure. Damn glad I was a happily married man at the time. I can tell you that!"

  Vigo paused again
to take one last puff before grinding out the lit ashes of the cigar upon the ground. “And here is where I pray to God that you'll believe me when I tell you that I'm your friend. Anthony, I'm going to tell you something so upsetting that only a real friend, or a real enemy would tell you.” He wiped his chin, as he struggled for the words. “Roxanne had a child by you. It was a boy, Anthony, and you are the biological father. Your boy's name is Russell. After she left you in Texas, she resigned the NRO and married some professor at the University of California at Berkeley and gave birth to your son."

  The revelation stunned Anthony. It was this that he always sensed, but it was like an itch that could never be scratched. This was more than he had bargained for, and his head began to swim with questions. He drew a deep breath and could sense a small amount of control over his voice box returning to him. “Where,” he said in a thin raspy exhale.

  “You mean, where is the boy?” Anthony blinked twice for the fifth time.

  Vigo grimaced at the thought of what he have to do next as he pulled his cellular videophone out of his pocket. “I didn't even know you had a son until I got this message a few months ago. So you understand, at this point, Roxanne and her husband are dead, and the boy has crawled through an old tunnel to a neighbor's home. After I got this message, I went there as fast as I could, but Russell was already gone, and the old woman was dead. It was a pro job."

  Vigo pressed the replay button and held the display in front of Anthony's face. Anthony saw his son for the first time. The boy was crying and trembling, yet firm in his actions and repeating the words his mother had carefully drilled into him for such an occasion. Then he saw two men break into the room behind the boy and an old woman, who fought with the first man until her head exploded from a shotgun blast. The last thing he saw was Russell being drugged with a spray followed by the butt of a shotgun as it smashed into the camera.

  Vigo turned off the phone and slipped it into Anthony's pocket. “You and I are the only ones who have a copy of this message. Don't let anyone know.” He threw the butt on the ground and sighed. “I've been trying to find your boy ever since, and it is like he has vanished from the face of the Earth—and trust me, I have some rather impressive resources at my command."