by YS Pascal
I pulled my knees up to my chin. “No. You don’t.”
He waited.
“You gave up your scholarship at MIT to come back when Grandpa Alexander died.” John had begun his college work in Boston at the age of 15.
John nodded. “It’s okay. In the end, I learned much more at Mingferplatoi.”
Understandable. The Zygan Intelligence Academy provided uploads with Zygfed’s bi-galactic wealth of information, most of it unknown to Earth. I only wished that that had been enough for John. “Well, thank you. George and Connie were able to finish their studies thanks to you.”
“I didn’t leave until they could steer the family ship without me.”
“I know. But I still missed you. We all did.”
We sat quietly for a few minutes watching the shadows beyond the fire. Two nameless shadows hovered among the ones I had baptized with my family members’ monikers. The question that burned my lips surprised even me.
“Bro. Why don’t I remember my parents?”
John started. “Well, uh, you were very young,” he stumbled.
“I was five. I have other memories that age. But not of them. And Grandpa Alexander’s albums never had any pictures of my—our—mother and father.” How pale John looked as I turned to face him.
John kept avoiding my direct gaze, digging at the ashes with an intensity that caused sparks to fly from the pit. “They never told you,” was the whispered response.
I felt a gnawing in my stomach, a sharp pain that warned me to turn back from painful truths ahead. Yet the aching to know, superseded any growing dread. “No. Please.”
John rested his head in his hands for a few eternal minutes. When he looked up, his eyes were wet with tears. “Nor me. It was Theodore Benedict who enlightened me. And it was then that I resolved never to be a pawn of the Omega Archon again.”
“As a Zygint agent?”
“As a replicant.” He took a deep breath. “A clone.”
The volcano in my abdomen exploded, and for a few seconds, I couldn’t breathe. When I found the air to speak, my voice was trembling. “You’re saying I have no parents.”
John shook his head. “None of us do.”
Chapter 24
Tears Of A Clone
Neither of us spoke for a long time. I blinked, hard, but the tears wouldn’t come. Was it the fire’s heat or my anger that had dried my eyes.
Finally, I began. “Tell me what you know.”
“Not as much as I’d like,” John admitted. “You asked why I’ve been so driven to go to Level 3. That’s one reason. To get those answers.” He rubbed his temples with both hands. “Where did we come from? Who created us? Why are we here?” He snorted. “I thought I was the only one asking these questions—and then I met Theodore Benedict.”
“And he had the answers?”
“No. I wish, but, no. But he had the same questions.” A sigh. “I don’t know if I can explain it, but for the last several years, I’ve felt as if my life has just been a rehearsal for something else, something truly real. Til then, I feel like I’m just an experimental animal for unknown observers who keep building complex figurative dragons for me to slay.”
“Sounds like the definition of Purgatory,” I observed, flashing an image of Marlin the Magician in his cave.
John nodded. “In the end, Shiloh, I am not a patient man. I refuse to spend the rest of my life playing Sisyphus, pushing a boulder up a hill just to watch it roll down day after day. I must, somehow, someway, get to Level 3, and ‘put away childish things’.
I shook my head. “Haven’t you kind of been pushing that boulder up over and over yourself for the last three years?” I snorted, “Besides, after all the stuff you’ve just told me, how can you be sure that Level 3 even exists?”
John looked into my eyes. “I have faith that it does.” A pause. “The alternative would be too hard to bear.” His focus seemed to drift for a moment—perhaps to the memories of his recent imprisonment and rescue. After a few seconds, he cleared his throat and continued, “I’d always believed that Level 3 is where I would find the truth and my life would finally begin.” I almost missed his momentary glance at the sleeping Aliyah.
“Then you think we might not even be alive at all?” I instinctively rubbed my skin and felt for my pulse.
“We’re not robots or androids if that’s what you mean.” He nodded at Spud, “As your buddy Shakespeare over there would quote, ‘If you prick us, do we not bleed?’” He shrugged. “We bleed.”
“But, you’ve got no idea why were we, uh, cloned? And from whom?” A sheepish grin. “Whoms?” My gaze dropped to the part of his anatomy that differed most from mine.
“Benedict thinks I was the index case. In other words, I was created first for some reason,” he theorized, “from an unknown template, and then my family was built around me.” He poked at the fire again. “But I’m not certain he’s right about that.” His eyes met mine.
I moved back a foot. “You don’t mean me? Why would it be me?
Another shrug. “The red haired woman. Stacy. I’ve never seen or heard of her.”
I frowned. “But I don’t know who she is either.” I told John about my experience with Agriarctos and my avatar in the RAM. “My avatar died before I could get the story. But at Mel’s diner, you were ‘there’ with the redhead—if she was Stacy. Grandpa Alexander, too.” A new thought hit me. “Could Grandpa Alexander be the template from which we were, uh…?”
John shrugged. “Possibly. But I think he was just a ‘recruiter’. For Zygint. Or the Helianthi. Or both. ‘Why’ is a question neither Benedict nor I could answer.”
“Are all of us clones then? Benedict, too?”
“No. He says.” John pursed his lips. “He does have a mother, as we saw.” John put his hands on his neck behind his head and stretched. “Shiloh, I’ve given up any hope that Level 2 will ever provide us with the truth. Let’s finish what we need to do to reset our timeline, and then I can revisit my quest for tangible knowledge—for me and you.”
“We will have a brief opportunity in less than 30 minutes.” Spud appeared behind us. If he’d overheard our conversation, he wasn’t going to let on. “Records show the unusual concordance of both a total eclipse and a substantial earthquake occurring in the seventh hour. Around 1 p.m.”
John beat me to it. “Darkness and distraction. The miracle we’d been hoping for.”
* * *
Spud advocated that we try a full frontal approach. John and I should dress up as visiting—male--Roman officers, and stride through the ranks straight to Yeshua. Spud would disguise himself as a wandering prophet or seer, and draw attention in his direction by predicting the eclipse. Even so, John balked. “The numbers would still be against us. I saw at least ten guards. And even if we got to Yeshua, we’d have to transfer the Somalderis without creating…curiosity.”
“That’ll be a problem with any scenario,” I said. “We can’t distract everyone, and the Somalderis won’t be easy to pull out quickly from under the shoulder plates of the body armor.”
“We are too few to implement multiple distractions,” Spud returned, his eyes falling on the sleeping Professor.
“No.” John glared at Spud. “Forget it. She’s not a catascope, this is our operation.”
“That isn’t our only concern with her,” I admitted, lowering my voice. “She thinks we’re mounting a rescue. And saving Yeshua’s life unfortunately isn’t in our game plan.”
The realization clearly disturbed John. “I’m sure we could explain…”
Spud and I both shook our heads.
“Spud has a good point, though,” I continued. “The guards—and everyone else—in these cultures are less likely to focus on what a woman is doing. Women aren’t seen as immediate threats.”
I convinced the others that I stood the best chance of getting close to Yeshua with the Somalderis. As a woman, I’d be less threatening to the Roman guards, and maybe I’d even be welcomed by t
he other female mourners providing solace by Yeshua’s side. The flowing robes draped around my body could easily hide the Somalderis. John and Spud could, if needed, draw the guards’ attention away from me, while I attempted to deliver the Fleece.
We left Dr. Malamud curled up in the cave, fast asleep. John knelt by her side and kissed her lightly on the forehead, then ran to catch up as we ventured back out towards the crucifixion site.
Yeshua’s condition had deteriorated horribly over the past few hours. Sunken eyes and cheeks, cracked lips, gasping breaths from an emaciated chest. The wounds from his beating had filled with pus, which was oozing out and mingling with the serum dripping onto his bloody feet. One of the women nearby tried to wipe his legs with a damp cloth, only to be chased back by a Roman guard wielding a gilded javelin. Getting close wasn’t going to be easy.
John nodded at me, and set off ambling in the direction of the guards. In his Ergaled beard and robes, his hair color and skin color anamorphed into a dark brown, he no longer resembled my brother but a sun-baked Judean cleric of the era. Spud had opted for the costume of a Roman courier. He had already engaged a couple of guards in casual conversation as they watched the abhorrent spectacle before them with cynical indifference.
My makeshift Ergal’s Aramaic helped me approach the women as a convincing Yeshua acolyte from a neighboring village. I’d suggested just being Shiloh, but coached by an adamant Spud, I introduced myself as Mary, a daughter of Jerusalem and the wife of Clopas.
So close, and yet so far. I was only a few feet away from Yeshua, but still under the watchful eyes of a few of the unoccupied guards who seemed to have nothing better to do than their jobs. I’d trigger their attention in unpleasant ways if I inched closer. My team? Well, Spud did seem to be amusing several soldiers with some street magic, and John had attracted a few guards of his own who, in another era, would be demanding “to see his papers.” But, with a couple of guards nearby still hovering warily, maybe Spud was right--perhaps we should’ve asked Aliyah to come and play her siren call for this group after all.
Well, nature would have to provide the “Look over here” distraction. Spud’s hand signals gave us a 30 second countdown to the start of the eclipse. As soon as the darkness enveloped us, I’d race to wrap the fleece around--
“Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani!”
I started at the sound of the harsh, hoarse voice, its plaintive plea stabbing my ears with a wave of despair. Frozen, I watched Yeshua, his eyes reaching towards a graying sky, railing at his abandonment again.
The earthquake knocked me to the ground. This shaker was bigger than I’d ever felt, even as a veteran Angeleno. By the time the shaking had eased and the screams of the frightened around me had quieted, the eclipse’s dusk had neared its peak.
I jumped to my feet, my fingers rubbing the Somalderis. I only had a few minutes, I’d better move quickly before the light returned. All around me, terrified Romans and locals were running, crying, and shouting. Crouching down, I crept towards the cross on which Yeshua was imprisoned, reached down inside my robes to pull out the fleece, and—
I was pulled to the ground by a strong pair of arms behind me. My red hot reflexes kicked in--I rolled over and pulled my legs to my chest, ready to slice my assailant’s abdomen in two with a powerful kick. My sandals stopped an inch from the protuberant belly of my attacker. One of the Yeshua disciples, she was clearly angry, and clearly pregnant.
“Keep away from him,” the woman cried in Aramaic as she tried to grab my feet.
I dodged backwards--right into the hands of two other women, who, gripping my forearms with inhuman strength, dragged me away from my target. “I am trying to help him,” I protested, trying to break free. “Let me go. There isn’t much time.”
“Only Yahweh can help him now. It is finished,” the oldest whispered, waving her craggy fist in my face. “He will join his father in paradise.”
Rays of light filtered around the edge of the moon as the second dawn of the day began to break. The ground shook once again, less strongly. Good, the aftershock could frighten these women off my case and give me a last chance to transfer the fleece. Unfortunately, this time, the women didn’t scream. As one, they fell on their knees in prayer, and, my eyes were drawn to the cross once again visible in my line of sight.
Yeshua’s body hung limply, barren of life and breath. I swallowed a sob. It was too late. He was gone.
Chapter 25
Shiloh’s Choice
The Cave of Half-Baked Ideas—two thousand years ago
“Zygan historical records note that Yeshua died at 1500 local time to-day,” reported Spud once we’d all gathered back in our hideaway cave. He ambled over to where I sat forlorn, poking at the last embers of our fire. Night was falling and it would be quite chilly again soon. “The first quake occurred at 1456, Richter 6.9, about 2 minutes before the peak of the eclipse.”
I forced a wan smile. “So close, so close…”
“Wasn’t your fault. I wouldn’t have figured on the women mounting an attack either,” John, sitting cross-legged next to the sleeping Professor, whispered. “You did the right thing, holding back.”
Grateful for the kind words, I touched my hand to my forehead in a subtle salute. John nodded and lay down next to his sleeping companion. With a sigh, I turned back to the fire. Funny. Despite all this mess, in some ways John seemed happier than I’d ever seen him before.
Spud sat down by me, still nose-first in his black market Ergal.
“I gather we didn’t change the timeline back,” I muttered.
“Doesn’t seem so.” Spud shook his head as he scanned. He didn’t add that things might have gone better had we opted for his strategy. He didn’t have to.
“Well, back to Plan B,” I mumbled, “Whatever that may be.” I added another twig to the fire and watched it sizzle in a flash of light. “Though I have to wonder if it’s even worth it to set things right. Professor Malamud’s world is a lot more advanced and evolved than our modern century.”
“And peaceful,” added John from his mat. “Imagine an Earth finally without war. It may even be worth the price of our brothers’ lives.”
“We don’t have the right to make that decision,” I returned.
“I know,” John sighed. “None of us do. Though enough drum-beating sovereigns have fooled well-meaning patriots into sacrificing themselves on the battlefield in the cause of peace, hmm?”
I nodded. “We’ll just have to pray our timeline—and our universe--gets its act together after we restore it.”
Shrugging, John said, “I’m not holding my breath.” He nodded at Spud. “Hey, you’ve been studying that Ergal of yours very diligently, Escott. Any fresh ideas?
Another head shake. John scooted over and sat up next to us. “What if we go back in time a day and try again?”
Spud didn’t seem enthusiastic. “I’m not convinced that we’d be more successful. Our numbers, even with your friend,” he nodded at the Professor, “are still too small.” He pursed his lips. “Sadly, our Zygan Ergals are still inoperative, and these other Ergals are still missing vital tools. We would be both visible and poorly armed.”
John tossed in a heavier branch he and Aliyah had collected to feed the flames. His eyes searched for Spud’s. “So you’re saying that the only thing we can do now is deliver the Somalderis to Yeshua after his death, right?”
Spud looked away as I snorted, “What’s the point of that? It’ll just sit in his grave.” My stick jabbed at the fire and sent sparks flying.
None of us said anything more for a very long time.
John’s voice was quiet when he broke the silence. “I’ll do it.”
Spud twitched, but continued to stare at the fire. I turned to my brother. “Do what?”
“What I have to do,” John said, avoiding my gaze.
I shot my puzzled frown at each of them to no avail. When the realization hit me, it was unbearable. “No!” I cried. “No way! I won’t lose
you again!” I wrapped my arms around John’s muscular shoulders, hoping I could protect him for eternity from the jaws of death.
Dr. Malamud stirred, her eyes flickering open, squinting to take in the scene. “What’s going on?”
John and I said nothing. Spud intervened. “Rush is considering delivering the Somalderis directly to Yeshua.”
Scratching her head, the Professor said, “But the guards will not allow that, right?”
“In Level 3,” Spud continued. “Deliver it in heaven.
The Professor sat up, wide-awake and visibly confused.
John’s voice was tender. “I’m afraid, Aliyah, that Yeshua didn’t survive.”
Her expression turned to sadness. A plaintive reply: “Were we not supposed to have tried to rescue him after sunset tonight?”
“He was taken sooner than we’d hoped,” John said. “We were far outnumbered. You wouldn’t have been able to help.”
Aliyah looked at both John and me with genuine concern, a frown creasing her forehead.
“It’s a crazy idea, John” I exploded. “Suicide doesn’t get you into heaven.”
“But it’s okay if it’s ‘suicide by cop’.” John’s light tone was very disturbing. “Or in this case, Roman Legionnaire.”
“I might remind you that this era does not provide lethal injections or painless euthanasia,” Spud warned, highlighting the gruesome, “The death of Yeshua, or even the more rapid decapitation of Cicero, was brutal torture. The best one might hope for would be a clean blow up the epigastrium with that Legionnaire’s sword.”
“You’re both nuts.” I was aghast at the direction of the conversation. “Forget it. I said it before and I’ll say it again. I will not let my brother sacrifice himself.” Softly. “If anyone falls on their sword on this one, it should be me.”
John gave Spud a jaunty nudge with his right foot. “Hey, Shakespeare, didn’t Macbeth say ‘what’s done is done’?”