Attrition of the Gods: Book 1 of the Mystery Thriller series Gods Toys.

by P. G. Burns

  ATTRITION OF THE GODS

  I P

  Innovative Publishing

  ‘It’s time you learnt the truth. I only hope you can forgive me........’

  Behind the pages of history and the rhetoric of world leaders, a game is being played for dominion over the human race by a species we have evolved to forget: those that lie in the shadows and whisper to us when we are at our most vulnerable.

  It’s been running since the time of King Solomon and has influenced everything we hold dear and central to our humanity: from our major religions, through to the Holocaust, and even into the financial crisis of the early 21st Century.

  Everything has been at their hands and now a winner is in sight. But it’s not only humans that are open to corruption. The rules have been broken and the simple game has turned into a battle for survival. Who are they? Why are they here? And where does this leave the human race?

  We need a champion of our own, someone to win this game for us, but a game of chess, isn’t won in a single move. What you need is a strategy.

  “Everything you think you know is challenged and changed.”

  “A conspiracy theorists’ dream-come-true, PG Burns takes you on a triumphant roller-coaster through the pages of history.”

  David Hughes, Innovative Publishing

  “Intelligent fantasy wrapped up in a seriously thrilling tour de force of action spanning the ages”

  Kelly Townley, Author

  Prologue

  “Illusion is the first of all pleasures.”

  – Voltaire

  Reuben Lupas looked a tall, gaunt spectre of a man as he strode through the dingy prison block. With dark eyes that contradicted his shockingly bright blond hair, he scanned the filthy corridor and lifted the hem of his monk’s robes to step over the gullies that carried blood and excrement from the overcrowded cells.

  He was accompanied by a man wearing a hooded robe, his face hidden from view. The two men trod carefully, wary of slipping on the wet stone steps covered in a slimy moss. Reuben was uncomfortable in these surroundings; he preferred a more palatial environment. He held his robe with one hand and a cloth to his face with the other. The stench of the cells threatened to overpower him, yet his companion seemed unaffected by the rancid environment.

  Abel, the duty guard, ran over to greet the important-looking visitors. Reuben heard the screams of an inmate and his pulse raced. A smile invaded his face as the sound of the whip lashed time and time again. However, his mood changed when he realised the screams came from the cell holding the inmate he had come to see, the man who was a vital cog in his intricate plan. He turned to the guard.

  “I assume the prisoner will survive the night?” The question was tinged with sarcasm.

  “Yes,” replied Abel. “Shay is just putting some manners on him.”

  Reuben shook his head in disbelief as the snap of the whip and another scream rang out. He turned to Abel once more but this time he was not so polite.

  “Run ahead and tell this Shay that I will be wielding that whip on his back if the prisoner dies.”

  Eventually, after negotiating their way through a maze of declining stairways and thin stone corridors, they arrived at the door of the last cell in the damp squalor. Outside the cell was Abel and the gaoler, Shay, a thickset, extremely hairy mute with an unfortunate face, which now had the look of a child who had been relieved of his favourite toy.

  Reuben addressed him, his voice low and sinister. “I expect this man to be capable of speaking. If he is not fit to speak to me then we will be executing two more in the morning!”

  Both men looked at each other and peered into the cell, studying the prisoner.

  “He is fine. Shay hardly touched him. See for yourself,” said Abel. He then shouted into the cell, “A visitor for the King!”

  Shay chuckled, amused by this remark.

  Reuben pushed the guards aside and entered the cell. The two guards tried to follow.

  “Leave us. I wish to speak with the prisoner alone,” demanded Reuben.

  Abel and Shay headed back up, leaving Reuben’s companion waiting outside.

  The prisoner stood naked in the cell, his body battered, bruised and torn and his face swollen. His hair and beard were matted with blood. Still he held his head up high and looked Reuben in the eye.

  “My name is Reuben Lupas. We have met before, do you remember?”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “Good, then you know what I am capable of. I have come here today to discuss the possibility of your release.”

  He waited for a response, but none came.

  “I am presuming you do want to avoid execution?” Still there was no response. Reuben impatiently raised his voice. “DO you want to live?”

  There was a long silent moment before the prisoner finally responded in a gentle voice, letting the weight of his words sink in. “Everyone wants to live, yet I fear the price for my life will be too high a price to pay.”

  Reuben sat on the stone bench that furnished the cell and addressed the sorry-looking wretch. “Don’t mistake me for one of those fools outside, baying for your blood. I do not ask for you to renounce your claims. On the contrary, I wish to help you confirm your status and cement it in history.”

  Once again the prisoner did not respond, barely making eye contact through hooded eyelids. Reuben accepted this as an indication to continue.

  “I have travelled here with one of your loyal followers. A man similar in height, size and weight to yourself. He has agreed…no, he has insisted that he takes your place tomorrow. Now, I am pretty sure that, as you stand before me, battered and bruised and your face swollen, your own mother would struggle to recognise you. Our plan is for our friend, Shay, to give this man similar treatment. I do not anticipate anyone will notice. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “I understand what you’re saying but not why you would want to do this. Which of my loyal followers has agreed to such a thing?”

  “He waits outside. Apparently guilt for something he has done to you is his motive. You can speak to him yourself. As for me, let’s just say I’m a believer.”

  “And what would be expected of me once I am free? I am sure you are not a doing this out of kindness.”

  Reuben nodded. “First you will hide out in my villa. We will wait for the throngs of people who have come to town for the festival to leave and then we move you. You will have time to speak to your friends and family and to direct your followers and then you will say goodbye. I will arrange for you to sail far away across the sea. All I ask is that you never return.”

  “Why would I speak to my followers? What do I say when they see me alive days after witnessing my execution? Do they know of this deceit?”

  “No. Only we three and the mute will ever know the truth. As for what you say to them, we will think of something. Now, I ask again. Do you want to live, Yeshua Ben Yosef, King of the Jews?”

  The man history would depict as the Son of God, Jesus Christ, the Messiah, looked up to the ceiling with his hands apart as if asking for divine inspiration before answering, “Yes.”

  On hearing his master agree, the man outside stepped into the cell and kissed Jesus on the cheek.

  Reuben laughed as he announced, “Behold, Judas, son of Simon, who will be known as Iscariot ‘the false one’.” His cackling laughter unnerved the two Jews.

  June 1st 2146 AD

  “Education is not preparation for life; Education is life itself.”

  John Dewey

  The large auditorium buzzes
with excitement as the new student’s mill around. Ember Jones, a petite girl with flawless skin, long, blonde curly hair and stunning big, blue eyes, epitomises the Aryan race to which she belongs. Today she becomes a freshman here at the Reuben Lupas Temple of Learning – known as the RLT for short. She sits at her allocated seat amongst the throngs of first-day students and looks up to the domed ceiling that is decorated with the beautiful artwork of the great Angelo Abela. His paintings depict historical events such as the Verdi uprising, the Rapture and the return of the Messiah. As she scans the ceiling she sees scenes depicting the millions of deaths caused by the revolution in the twenty-first century and the terrible carnage that followed. Letting her eyes move further along she sees the events known as the Great Tribulation and the Rapture.

  Ember has seen photos of the ceiling in books but she is not prepared for the sheer scale of the work. She knows its dimensions are the same as a historical work known as the Sistine Chapel but she imagines that even that painting could not match this for artistic genius. Between each of the thirteen pendentives that support the Dome is a depiction of one of the thirteen Djinn. Even the one known as “the traitor” is represented. Ember’s heart beats faster and she can feel a tingling sensation all over as she realises that as of today she will be studying these events at this bedrock of academia.

  Her eyes are drawn to the painting that is probably the most evocative of all the depictions: a beautiful young woman draped in a sheer veil that does little to hide her naked body. This is Amitiel, Ember’s favourite Arc Hon. Ember was always drawn to her image when she studied this painting in books and, although fascinated by all four Arc Hon, she felt strongest towards Amitiel. Maybe because she was incarnated as a young girl not dissimilar to Ember in appearance and age or perhaps because of the tales she heard of this young warrior. Ember needs to take a deep breath as she looks at Amitiel’s image, the feeling of awe overwhelming her.

  “Wow,” she exhales, her hand resting on her chest.

  At sixteen Ember is the youngest student to ever attend the RLT and she has achieved this honour by studying religiously every day. The fact her father is the Procurator of the Jinn City and Dean of the RLT has not in any way aided her achievement of gaining acceptance two years early, although many doubt this. This remarkable achievement would usually be major gossip but not today. Today she is overshadowed by an even more extraordinary student in attendance. Adam Costello is the first ever non-Aryan to graduate to the RLT. His recent acceptance into this, the highest of academic institutes has caused outrage amongst the Aryan Council and many of the inhabitants of Higher Jinn. Parents threatened to make their children boycott the classes he attended and, had it not been for Procurator Jones’ intervention, the Aryan Council would have excluded the boy before he even arrived.

  

  Adam, a squat, stocky boy made conspicuous by his short dark hair and olive skin, enters the auditorium and feels everyone’s eyes on him. He looks for his name on a seat, positive that he will be placed in the worst possible area, probably with an obstructed view. A young girl whom he recognises as the Procurator’s daughter waves at him and indicates a seat next to hers.

  Shit, he thinks to himself, they’ve sat me next to Conrad Jones’ daughter? She is bound to be a right stuck-up bitch. Oh well, no one said this was going to be easy.

  Adam makes his way up to the seat, looking around at the sea of blond-haired sons and daughters of the master race. He hopes his feelings towards them are not as obvious on his face as they are in his heart.

  “What a bunch of tossers…”

  The other students point at him, murmuring to each other as looks of disgust cross their faces. He knows how unwelcome his attendance here is and can’t help but imagine what they are whispering, although he doesn’t really need to imagine; most do not even bother lowering their voices.

  “Fucking Schwartskull scum,” he hears from the group of uniformed lads.

  “Yuck, he touched me,” a plump bespectacled girl shouts, wiping her shoulder against the chair.

  Adams feels his face get redder and redder as he climbs the steps to the seat. He does not know if it is embarrassment or anger causing this raised blood pressure or if perhaps it’s the dread he feels at sitting next to the Procurator’s stuck-up daughter. “She will be the ultimate bitch,” he decides and prepares himself for a barrage of abuse.

  “Hi, I’m Ember Jones.” She stands, holding her hand out, a huge warm smile across her face.

  Adam is momentarily stunned. She is either taking the piss or she has taken a couple of DMTs, he thinks to himself, tentatively holding his hand out too. He half expects her to retract hers and blow a raspberry, creating great hilarity amongst her fellow students. Instead she takes his hand and, with a noticeably firm two-handed grip, she warmly shakes it.

  “I have been looking forward to meeting Adam Costello, the first Caucasian ever to graduate to the RLT.” Ember’s enthusiastic greeting surprises Adam so much he responds with a pathetic reply.

  “It’s an honour to meet you.” Instantly realising how lame he sounds his face reddens even more.

  Ember smiles awkwardly. “Really?”

  “Sorry, I’m not used to Aryans talking to me.”

  The two sit down; looking around they notice that almost every student is watching them.

  “See, you’re a celebrity,” Ember whispers to him, with a cheeky grin.

  “More like a freak show,” he replies.

  The lights dim and a lone figure walks onto the stage. The auditorium contains a semicircle of seats rising thirty rows from the stage. Two giant smooth liquid crystal statues flank either wing of the stage. One is a representation of Reuben Lupas – also known as the Messiah, or sometimes revered as the Host – the other is Solfrid, the High Priestess and first of the Djinn. Their images stand either side of the stage almost touching a ceiling that moves like liquid. The venue seats over a thousand students. The stage is small, set high up with a black liquid screen behind it. Dallas Proctor, the world’s leading authority on Old World history, is illuminated by a spotlight, giving him a celestial appearance.

  “Welcome, students of the Reuben Lupas Temple of Learning. I am Dallas Proctor, First Scholar of the Templi and Historian to the Host.”

  The word Host prompts all the students except Adam to bow their heads and chant a sort of prayer: “One world a gift from the Host, One world to serve the Host.”

  Ember nudges Adam and he takes the hint and bows just as the rest lift their heads. Ember suppresses a giggle. Dallas Proctor looks for the source of said giggle and sneers when he sees the dark-haired filth he knows to be Adam Costello.

  “Today we will give you an overview of the subjects that we will be covering during this first semester. You are going to learn about some very vile people. Some of whom are responsible for the slaughter of millions of innocent people. I do not apologise for the graphic knowledge we inflict upon you. You are entering adulthood…well, most of you are.” He diverts a look directly at Ember. “Only by showing you the unsavoury details of our past can we ensure the same mistakes are not repeated.”

  With a dramatic wave of his arm the auditorium lights go out and the students’ chairs recline back fully. The beautiful painting above their heads seems to melt and they find themselves staring at a three-dimensional picture emanating from a fluid ceiling. Once the paintings fully fade a bright light descends, enveloping the students and thrusting them into a virtual image experience. Ember feels an incredible sensation sweep over her as she and the other students are immersed into this computer-generated simulation. She looks ahead, startled, as the life-sized depiction of a man appears inches from their faces. He is wearing a black uniform adorned with a red badge displaying an upside-down crucifix. His face is blood splattered and his arms tattooed, the muscles like knotted ropes. His whole body seems to be criss-crossed with thick veins and a scar runs down his left cheek. His face is that of man who has killed many tim
es; a man with hate-filled eyes and no remorse. He stands amongst derelict, bomb-damaged buildings, a swirl of dust covering a group of ragged-looking women and children that are cowering at his feet. Ember knows exactly who this man is.

  “SHANE MILLS – the Antihost!” shouts Dallas over the noise of the gunfire and explosions that accompany the images. The image is complemented by the smells of the scene: a mixture of burning and rot. The image of dust is so real Ember instinctively covers her mouth with her hand.

  The students’ view moves from Shane to a small child whose tears create tramlines through the dirt on his cheeks. The small boy is no more than four or five and can be heard crying for his mum. Shane Mills walks over to the child, wipes his tears, then puts his gun to the child’s head and, showing no emotion, pulls the trigger. Horrified screams from the other captives are soon drowned out by the sound of rapid gunfire as two other uniformed men and a woman with crazy eyes pump round after round of bullets into the bodies of the desperate mothers and their children until only two small girls are left alive.

  The students recoil in their seats, a mixture of fear and revulsion overcoming them. Most subdue their screams but at least two can be heard crying as the image reverts to Shane’s face. His image appears to be looking at each and every one of the students, as if they were to be his next victims. He lifts his infamous machete and with two heavy blows he beheads the last two children. The screams are no longer subdued and the image is so real only a brief shimmer in the picture reminds Ember that this is a virtual scene.

  Many of the other youngsters struggle to remind themselves they are in fact safe in the confines of their seats in the RLT auditorium and that this is an image of a man long dead, a historical event. Dallas is aware they cannot detach themselves but persists with the simulation. Over the years he has witnessed many students scream, cry and even soil themselves while experiencing these portrayals of the Antihost. Only when one young girl vomits and passes out does he relent and end the programme.