In His Image

by James Beauseigneur

  “Prior to that launch, China had attempted to maintain a neutral position in the long-running conflict between its neighbors. That neutrality was frequently called into question, however, because of the Chinese arms merchants who served as the main source of weaponry for Pakistan.”

  As Christopher, Decker, and Milner watched, new information poured in at an incredible rate. In a matter of only a few hours, the entire war was unfolding. In response to China’s action, India launched a conventional attack on the Chinese interceptor bases, while simultaneously launching five additional missiles on Pakistan. Three were intercepted; two reached their targets.

  Pakistan then responded to India’s attack by launching a volley of its own nuclear weapons and within minutes the Pakistani Islamic Guard set off the remaining bombs they had planted in Indian cities.

  In a temporary lull in the action, the scene on television switched to a satellite feed from a camera mounted on the top of a remotely controlled all-terrain rover, which showed the first horrifying scenes from the suburban areas of New Delhi. Fire was everywhere. Rubble filled the streets. The sky was filled with thick black smoke from the fires and radioactive fallout, which blocked out the setting sun as though it were covered by a loosely woven black cloth. Scattered around the landscape were hundreds of people, dead and dying. Immediately in front of the vehicle, the mostly nude body of a young Indian woman lay sprawled in the street. All but a few scraps of her clothing had been burned away. On the less charred parts of her body, where some skin remained, the flowered pattern of the sari she had been wearing was seared into her flesh like a tattoo.

  Sitting on the street beside the woman’s body, a startled young girl, three or four years old, looked up at the rover and began screaming. The bombs had not been so merciful to her as to her mother; she might languish two or three days before life fully released its grip on her. For a moment the camera dwelled on her. Her skin was covered with numerous open blisters.

  Christopher turned away from the screen. “I could have prevented this,” he said. It took a moment for the statement to sink through the horror and register with Decker.

  “Christopher, there’s nothing you could have done,” Decker answered. “It’s useless to blame yourself.”

  “But there is something I could have done. I told you before we left New York that I felt Albert Faure was going to do something that would lead to catastrophe, and that there was nothing I could do to stop it. But it wasn’t true. There was one thing I could have done. And now, because I hesitated, millions have been killed and millions more will die. Even after the war is over there will be untold deaths from fallout and radiation poisoning. And unless the UN acts to provide immediate relief, millions more will die of starvation and disease.”

  “But it’s crazy to blame yourself for this. If this is the result of something Faure did, then the responsibility rests with him alone.”

  “Oh, the responsibility does indeed rest with Faure. It was he who put General Brooks back in control, and it was he who directed Brooks to issue the two ultimatums. With the first, Faure was hoping to bring the war to a quick close in India’s favor. In return, he expected to gain Nikhil Gandhi’s support for his bid to become secretary-general. With the second ultimatum, Faure believed he could force the hand of the Islamic Guard. General Brooks assured him that the Guard didn’t really have nuclear devices planted in India, but Faure knew the risk he was taking! If there were no bombs, then the ultimatum would call the Islamic Guard’s bluff. On the other hand, if the threat was real, Faure knew that a war would destabilize India to the point that Gandhi would likely return to rebuild India and Rajiv Advani would replace him as primary on the Security Council. Either way, Faure calculated that he would benefit.”

  “Are you sure about all this?” Decker asked, unable to believe that Faure would sacrifice so many lives to become secretary-general.

  “I am,” Christopher answered. “I’m not saying Faure intended to start a nuclear war. But through his ceaseless quest for power, his neglect of the WPO, and his appointment of corrupt men, Faure first created the environment where war could happen. Then in his desperation to become secretary-general, he pushed the combatants over the edge.”

  “Christopher is correct,” Milner said with certainty.

  “Faure is also responsible for the murder of Ambassador Lee,” Christopher added. “And he is planning the assassination of Yuri Kruszkegin. There is nothing he will not do to achieve his goals. I must stop him now, before he can do any more.”

  “Why didn’t Faure just kill Gandhi, instead of risking the lives of so many?” Decker asked, still struggling to believe the magnitude of Faure’s malevolence.

  “The death of Ambassador Lee was believed to be an accident,” Milner answered. “If Kruszkegin died, most would assume it was coincidence. But no one would believe that the death of three primary members was just a fluke, especially if soon after that Faure became secretary-general precisely because of the replacement of those three members. Besides, killing Gandhi would still leave him the problems in India and Pakistan to deal with as secretary-general. Better to try to end the war quickly in India’s favor and ingratiate himself to Gandhi, rather than bring suspicion on himself with three untimely deaths.”

  “What are you going to do?” Decker asked Christopher.

  “In the third chapter of Ecclesiastes,” Christopher answered, “King Solomon wrote, ‘There is a time for everything: a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to reap; a time to heal and a time to kill.’”

  Decker looked back and forth from Christopher to Milner and then back to the television screen. As the camera panned the devastation, in the distance, where the smoke and radioactive cloud had not yet entirely shrouded the earth, the moon rose above the horizon, glowing blood red through the desecrated sky.

  It was another two hours before their plane landed in New York. They went directly to the United Nations, where the Security Council was meeting in closed session. As night fell in the east, the war continued to spread. Nuclear warheads dropped like overripe fruit, appearing as falling stars in the night sky. The destruction spread six hundred miles into China and to the south nearly as far as Hyderbd, India. West and north of Pakistan, the people of Afghanistan, southeastern Iran, and southern Tajikistan gathered their families and all they could carry on their backs, and beat a hurried path away from the war. In just days the local weather patterns would fill their fields, rivers, and streams with toxic fallout.

  Pakistan was little more than an open grave. India’s arsenal was completely spent. What was left of its army survived in small clusters that were cut off from all command and control. Most would die soon from radiation. China was the only participant still in control of its military and it had no interest in going any further with the war.

  In the few hours it had taken them to fly from Israel and arrive at the UN, the war had begun and ended. The final estimate of the number killed would exceed four hundred and twenty million. There were no winners.

  Christopher reached the door of the Security Council Chamber and burst through, followed closely by Decker and Milner. For a moment the members stared at the intruders. Everyone knew Decker, but they had not seen Milner in a year and a half and the change in Christopher was more than the hair and the beard; his whole demeanor had changed. When he recognized Christopher, Gerard Poupardin, who sat some distance from Faure, looked over at another staffer and laughed, “Who does he think he is? Jesus Christ?”

  Christopher seized the opportunity provided by the startled silence. “Mr. President,” Christopher said, addressing the Canadian ambassador who sat in the position designated for the president of the Security Council. “Though I have no desire to disrupt the urgent business of this body in its goal of providing relief to the peoples of India, Pakistan, China, and the surrounding countries, there is one among us who is not fit even to cast his vote among an assembly of thieves, much less this august body!”
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  “You’re out of order!” Faure shouted as he jumped to his feet. “Mr. President, the alternate from Europe is out of order.” The Canadian ambassador reached for his gavel but froze at the sheer power of Christopher’s glance.

  “Gentlemen of the Security Council,” Christopher continued.

  “You’re out of order!” Faure shouted again. Christopher looked at Faure, and suddenly and inexplicably Faure fell back into his chair, silent.

  Christopher continued. “Gentlemen of the Security Council, seldom in history can the cause of a war be traced to one man. On this occasion, it can be. One man sitting among you bears nearly the total burden of guilt for this senseless war. That man is the ambassador from France, Albert Faure.”

  Faure struggled to his feet. “That’s a lie!” he shouted.

  Christopher stated the charges against Faure.

  “Lies! All lies!” Faure shouted. “Mr. President, this outrage has gone on long enough. Ambassador Goodman has obviously gone completely mad.” Faure could feel his strength returning. “I insist that he be restrained and removed from this chamber and that …” Faure once again fell silent as Christopher turned and pointed, his arm fully extended toward him.

  “Confess,” Christopher said in a quiet but powerful voice.

  Faure stared at Christopher in disbelief and began to laugh out loud.

  “Confess!” Christopher said again, this time a little louder.

  Abruptly, Faure’s laughter ceased. The panic in his eyes could not begin to reveal the magnitude of his torment. Without warning he felt as though his blood were turning to acid as it coursed through his veins. His whole body felt as if he were on fire from the inside.

  “Confess!” Christopher said a third time, now shouting his demand.

  Faure looked in Christopher’s eyes and what he saw there left no doubt as to the source of his sudden anguish. He stumbled in pain and caught himself on the table in front of him. Blood began to trickle from his mouth and down his chin as he bit through the tender flesh of his lower lip; his jaw clenched uncontrollably like a vice under the unbearable agony. Gerard Poupardin ran toward Faure as those near him helped him to his seat.

  The pain grew steadily worse. There was no way out. “Yes! Yes!” he cried suddenly in excruciating anguish, as he pulled free of the grip of those helping him. “It’s all true! Everything he has said is true! The war, Ambassador Lee’s death; the plan to kill Kruszkegin, all of it!”

  Everyone in the room stared wide-eyed in disbelief. No one understood what was happening, least of all Gerard Poupardin. But everyone heard him—Faure had clearly confessed.

  Faure hoped only that his confession would bring relief from his torment, and in that he was not disappointed. No sooner had he finished his confession than he fell to the floor, dead.

  Someone ran for a doctor and for about fifteen minutes the chamber was filled with confusion, until finally Faure’s lifeless body was taken from the room.

  “Gentlemen,” came a somber voice from near the spot where Faure had fallen. It was Christopher. “A quarter of the world’s population is dead or threatened by death in China, India, and the eastern portions of the Middle East. There is so much that must be done, and it must be done quickly. As indelicate as it may seem: with the death of Ambassador Faure, until France can send a new ambassador and the nations of Europe can elect a new primary, as alternate from Europe, I am now that region’s acting primary representative. Gentlemen, let us get to the business at hand.”

  The coroner’s report would find that Albert Faure died of a massive heart attack, brought on, it seemed, by the tremendous burden of guilt for what he had done. For Decker, no explanation was necessary: Christopher had begun to exercise the unexplored powers within him. He could only hope and pray that these powers would be equal to the challenges the world would soon face as Christopher led mankind into the final stage of its evolution and into the dawn of the New Age of humankind.

  ACTS

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  GOD

  “Are these the shadows of things that will be, or are they the shadows of things that may be, only?”

  CHARLES DICKENS, A Christmas Carol

  “For false Christs and false prophets will appear and perform great signs and miracles to deceive even the elect—if that were possible.”

  MATTHEW 24:24

  “There’s no place like home.”

  L. FRANK BAUM, The Wizard of Oz

  Prologue

  Behold the Hosts of Heaven

  Jerusalem

  THE SCENE AT THE TEMPLE was not much different than it had been at the airport. Even from a distance, immense crowds could be seen. The Temple was usually a swarm of activity, but now, despite the number of people in the streets, the Temple itself was empty. The inner and outer courts, usually bustling with priests and worshipers, were abandoned, and the steps leading up to the front of the Temple were equally barren, with two exceptions. As the helicopter circled, Christopher Goodman, Robert Milner, and Decker Hawthorne could see two men standing on the steps, both clothed in sackcloth and covered with gray ash.

  Farther away, two hundred to three hundred priests and Levites huddled near High Priest Chaim Levin, who stood a safe distance away in a tableau of mock defiance toward the men on the steps. A little farther back, the crowds watched from behind a line of armed Israeli soldiers. Reporters from the international news media, unable to leave the country and aware that Jerusalem was Christopher’s destination, stood ready to cover every second of the event. The unexpected arrival of the oracles John and Cohen an hour earlier and their subsequent clearing of the Temple while Christopher was en route from New York only intensified the level of expectation. Into this, but more specifically between the line of military personnel and the steps of the Temple, Christopher directed the pilot to set the helicopter down.

  With television cameras rolling, Christopher was the first to disembark the aircraft. His hair and long robes tossed wildly about him in the swirling winds of the helicopter’s rotating blades, painting a striking portrait for television viewers and magazine covers as he stood unflinching before the challenge that faced him. Looking out as he waited to exit the helicopter, Decker could see that John and Cohen had expected Christopher’s arrival.

  Once they were all on the ground, Milner turned and signaled for the pilot to withdraw. Standing there face to face with John and Cohen, Decker could not ignore the sudden twinge of anxiety that swept over him. Was any of this feeling the result of animosity borne between him (in his previous incarnation as Judas) and John two thousand years earlier, as Christopher had told him? To Decker’s surprise, despite all else that was going on, Christopher turned to him and put his hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right,” he said, and somehow Decker understood that it was.

  John was the first to speak. “Hiney ben-satan nirah chatat haolam!” he shouted in Hebrew, meaning: “Behold the son of Satan who manifests the sin of the world.”

  “So we meet again at last,” Christopher answered in an ironic turn of the phrase, ignoring John’s comment.

  “You are mistaken,” John replied. “I never knew you.”

  “No, Yochanan bar Zebadee,” Christopher responded, using the Hebrew form of John’s full name. “It is I who never knew you!”

  For a long moment neither spoke, but only stared at each other. Then Christopher dropped his gaze to the ground. “It’s not too late,” he said finally, addressing both John and Cohen. His voice had a sense of pleading but at the same time the tone indicated that he knew the attempt was in vain.

  Quite uncharacteristically, John smiled and then began to laugh. In a moment Cohen joined in. Christopher looked back at Decker with an expression that seemed to say, “this is for both of us.” Then, taking a deep breath and with no sign of anger but every ounce of conviction, he looked back at the two men and then shouted above their laughter, “As you will!”

  Then raising his right hand, he made a quick sweeping motion, and immed
iately John and Cohen’s laughter stopped as they were thrown backward through the air at incredible, almost unbelievable speed, their bodies slamming against the front walls of the Temple on either side of the entrance. The crunch of breaking bones was loud enough to be heard throughout the vast multitude and left no doubt as to their fate. Their blood splattered liberally on the wall and remained there as witness of where they had hit. As Christopher brought his hand back down, the two lifeless bodies fell and, with a sweep of his hand, they tumbled down the steps toward the street below, leaving two long trails of blood to mark their paths.

  Those assembled watched in stunned silence as Christopher, Milner, and Decker climbed the steps to the Temple while the crumpled bodies rolled on either side of them. As soon as the crowd realized that John and Cohen were actually dead, a shout went up from civilians and military alike. A spontaneous celebration began and was soon joined by people all around the world cheering the news as they watched on television or listened on radio. Members of the media quickly pushed through the lines of Israeli soldiers to get a better look at the bodies.

  In Chieti, Italy, a man whose nostrils were filled with the rank smell of burning sulfur and whose heart was filled with the madness by which he had thus far made bloodied carnage of all but one member of his family, held a gory meat cleaver above his head and was about to bring it down upon his only remaining son when, as quickly as it had come upon him … the madness was gone. Carefully the man lowered the cleaver and laid it aside, and there among the dismembered bodies of his family, he dropped to his knees to hold his terror-filled son, and wept. In Rudnyj, Turskaja, an old woman choked and gasped for breath as she pulled her head from a barrel of rain water in which she had tried to drown herself. In Baydhabo, Somalia, a teenage boy stopped only seconds before striking a match to set fire to his four gasoline-soaked younger siblings.