God of God

by Mark Kraver

  Conrad threw a few items from his office into an old gym bag that already had fresh underwear inside and half-jogged down the hallway to the building’s entrance. He was surprised to find Mac standing at the door, leaning against the wall as if he’d been waiting there for some time. Conrad opened his mouth to make an excuse for leaving, but Mac put up a hand to stop him.

  “Find her,” he said, with a more commanding tone than Conrad had ever heard from the bumbling nerd.

  “Count on it,” he replied, confused, letting the door shut behind him.

  Chapter 30

  Be sure you put your feet in the right place, then stand firm.

  Abraham Lincoln, 1809-1865, Earth

  Library of Souls

  Winging It

  “Yes, Master,” Numen said, silently. Yahweh was scolding him telepathically for straying so wildly from their original mission. They were skimming silently over the beach mosh-pit of mesmerized sightseers, party hounds, jubilant believers and pickpockets. Seagulls floated effortlessly around them on the airfoil created by the forward moving cloud, shouting and squawking to the world that He is coming.

  Numen continued in silence, not wanting to disturb Logan by speaking out loud as he defended his own actions up to this point in their quest. “The proletariat’s mission directive was to rescue Creators Ra and El, but you said after we crashed that you hoped the people of this planet would evolve. I understood this to mean the techno-social evolution of the indigenous Homo sapiens population, and this evolution had to take place before the alphabiotic signatures harvested the sun into a red giant explosion. My programming concluded the only way to protect you was to speed up evolution. Time was—is—of the essence. Is it not?”

  “How did you learn to do that on your own? Independent thinking was not included in your original programming, was it?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then where did it come from?”

  “Master, it came from you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “By observing your behavior when difficult decisions are made, I concluded that with the assistance of your gut neurons and microbiome, you were just ‘winging it.’”

  Numen allowed a moment to pass before reiterating the urgency of his independently-made decisions. “There is an estimated one half anton until this planet and its solar system will be consumed by the next phase of this sun’s evolution,” he said to Yahweh. “The red giant will not wait.”

  Speechless, Yahweh looked at Numen. He wasn’t sure he even knew his servant companion anymore. Numen was an android prototype imprinted with Yahweh’s neural engrams and his father’s humor, but this change in Numen’s behavior went far beyond the usual extrapolation of data points. This deviation from the norm was very close to independent thought, something avoided in seraphim since the disastrous days of the departed Elohim called Gog. Yahweh shuddered as he recalled the unspeakable days when the alphabiotic signatures were allowed to evolve on the mismanaged planet called Hell. The vicious Bots were now thriving here in this very star system, a system where the infamous Armilus—now known by the name Rogue—who himself had once been Gog’s most trusted seraph, now lives free.

  A disturbing thought inside the connectome initiated concern amongst the viewers:

  “What happened to Numen?” Lanochee asked.

  “Weren’t you afraid of him and Rogue?” Nadira asked.

  “I think I was too young and naive to be afraid. Deviations in Numen’s programming appeared more interesting than dangerous. Numen was, after all, my servant and friend—the closest friend I had ever had. Perhaps I should have thought differently at the time, but you must be the judge of that. As far as Armilus, or Rogue, I never trusted him.”

  Chapter 31

  All men's miseries derive from not being able to sit in a quiet room alone.

  Blaise Pascal, 1623-1662, Earth

  Library of Souls

  Twenty-Fourth Air Force, Cyber Command

  Wilson caught his duffle bag as it was thrown down from the cockpit of the little T-38 supersonic jet trainer aircraft. The pilot had flown at Mach-1 from Keesler to Lackland AFB in Texas for Wilson’s rendezvous with the 24th Air Force’s 688th Cyberspace Wing. Wilson and the 688th were about to embark on the covert mission deep within the African desert of extreme southeastern Egypt—the Hala’ib Triangle. Only the top brass and Wilson knew what the assigned mission entailed; everyone else would be briefed when they were airborne.

  The massive C-5B Galaxy transport, nicknamed Large Marge, was already on the tarmac. Its four massive engines generated enough thrust to carry a payload of 125,000 pounds over 8,000 nautical miles.

  Wilson hopped into an open-air jeep and sped across the tarmac. As he neared the gargantuan aircraft, he eyed the words Large Marge painted in ten-foot tall block letters on its side. He couldn’t believe an aircraft could be so big. It was nearly as long as a football field and at least six stories high. Twenty-eight wheels. What kind of plane needed twenty-eight wheels? Wilson was beginning to sense the magnitude of his mission

  The sight brought to mind something his dad had told him as a little boy the first time they’d watched a commercial jet taking off at the local airport. Wilson’s dad had been a rocket scientist, and he’d worked alongside famed captured German Nazi, Wernher von Braun, on the Saturn V rocket engine that took a man to the moon. “Hell son,” Wilson remembered his dad saying, “don’t you worry. We could launch a dump truck full of horse manure into outer space if we had a large enough engine on it.”

  Stopping next to the open mammoth nose section of Large Marge, Wilson saw what and whom he’d be flying with. The plane seemed crammed with troops and equipment. He was glad he had scrubbed his crew from this mission, especially Bubba. He didn’t want to make excuses for him to everyone he met. Also, he’d rather not cause an international incident between the idiot from Alabama and the first Arab woman they encountered.

  “Come on, run, run, run! What took you so long?” Air Force Master Sergeant Silky yelled as Wilson scrambled to board the transport to hell. “Gregg Wilson, I hope,” he screamed in Wilson’s ear. Not waiting to see Wilson’s orders, Silky accepted his frantic nodding before slamming a fist down hard on the large door button.

  The massive nose section dropped into flight position behind them, and all twenty-eight wheels began to inch forward. The pilot revved up the enormous engines to taxi onto the main runway for takeoff.

  Wilson held up his credentials and orders with one hand and wiped speckles of Silky’s spit out of his mouth and ear with the other. He was panting from the run up the ramp and agitated by the screaming asshole sergeant.

  “All right,” Silky grumbled. “Don’t know why we’re holding up the whole flight for you. Somebody from Cyber Command must really want you there. Sit down. You’re the last of the cargo.”

  Did he call me cargo? So much for his VIP treatment, Wilson thought. He glanced at the payload in Large Marge’s belly. It wasn’t a full load after all, he noted, because of the number of troops being transported with the equipment. What he did see made him feel like he was in the middle of a bad time: A battle-ready platoon and plenty of helicopters—including several Apache AH-64s and a UH 60 Blackhawk. Why would they need attack helicopters, ran through his head as the aircraft began to hum all over in preparation for take-off. The scene before him felt somewhat surreal. I left Florida yesterday, he thought, barely had time for a piss at Keesler, and now I’m on a steamy Texas tarmac surrounded by Apaches on my way to bum fuck nowhere.

  Sucking it up, he nodded respectfully at the stern master sergeant and looked around for a place to sit.

  “I said sit down!” the master sergeant barked, strapping himself into a seat and pointing to a free spot with a buckle. “We gotta get going.” Once everyone was secure, the Master Sergeant alerted the pilot to take-off.

  Wilson sank into his seat as the air carrier began to pick up speed. What’s the hurry? he thought. Who was their co
mpetition? Who else knew about the RFI points, and—the real question—who else had the balls to go in and find them?

  He glanced around the spacious fuselage and noticed everyone’s eyes were on him. He replayed Silky’s words: Somebody at Cyber Command must really want you there. Wilson exhaled and tipped his head back against the seat. It had been an insane 24 hours. Then his stomach came up into his throat as the massive C-5B Galaxy roared into the late afternoon sky.

  Chapter 32

  If you prick us do, we not bleed? If you tickle us do, we not laugh? If you poison us do, we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge?

  William Shakespeare, 1564-1616, Earth

  Library of Souls

  Gunman

  Thirty-five thousand feet over Nebraska, Conrad was on board Delta Air Lines flight 2162. He was still surprised he’d been able to grab a flight to one of New York City’s closest airports—Newark, New Jersey—at such short notice. He had to change flights at Salt Lake City, with a short layover that seemed like an eternity.

  The scene at the Utah airport made Conrad feel even more worried about Kit. Coverage of the strange East Coast cloud played on every hanging television; he could hear discussion of it emanating from every handheld device, every conversation he walked past. The queuing passengers were verging on hysteria, and he knew he was damned lucky to make it through the crowds to his connecting flight out of Salt Lake City. Price wars were waging as people fought with the airlines. Free vacations and tickets to anywhere in the world, agents were calling out, if you’ll give up your boarding passes to New Jersey. The airport was filled wall-to-wall with Mormons hoping for a ticket to the East Coast to see the holy visions now floating up the Georgia coastline.

  The pain in Conrad’s abdomen was not as severe as when the doctor had pressed on his belly earlier. He was glad his mother was with him when the doctor told him the news. Metastasis is an awful word to say aloud all alone. He hoped his doctor wasn’t mad about him missing his first chemotherapy appointment. He made it sound urgent.

  “Are you wanting to see our savior?” the cheery, freckle-faced young girl sitting next to Conrad asked him. She and several of her companions had just finished singing gospel songs at the top of their lungs.

  “If you’re talking about the cloud,” he said, clearing his throat, “then yes, in a manner of speaking.”

  “Isn’t it wonderful? Christ has come, and we will all be judged and taken to heaven,” shouted Freckles with almost uncontrolled excitement. “Are you heading to the beaches or the UN to see Christ?”

  “What do you mean UN?” Conrad asked with surprise.

  “Haven’t you heard? It was announced that Jesus is going to the United Nations to speak to the world.”

  Conrad didn’t answer; instead he looked out the window and considered his situation. Damn it. The traffic jams will be horrendous, he thought. With resignation, he turned back to watch the others singing and dancing in the aisles, on their way to be judged by Almighty God himself. What had Kit gotten herself into?

  Conrad deplaned at Newark Airport at 11:32 PM and saw a crowd of angry vigilantes swearing the wrath of God upon the devil who dared confront their Savior. He was at a loss to understand what was going on and pushed his way to the nearest television.

  “It is confirmed. Ten people are dead, with as many as twelve critically injured on a remote Georgian coastline near the Cumberland Island National Seashore in the wake of the cloud bearing the likeness of Christ and the Virgin Mary. At approximately 8:35 PM local time, a lone gunman opened fire with an automatic rifle as the glowing cloud passed fifty feet overhead. Hundreds of people from nearby St. Mary and Kingsland witnessed the attack.

  “Authorities on the scene say that people threw themselves at the gunman, stopping many bullets before they reached the cloud. The gunman was beaten to death by the angry mob, and his remains were thrown into the ocean. Now, people mourn the loss of their courageous loved ones.

  “I’m Chick Blizzard and this is CNN.”

  “Oh my God,” cursed Conrad under his breath, thinking about Kit inside that cloud. He felt gastric juices boiling into his throat as contempt and hatred for the gunman turned to concern for his girlfriend. He wanted to curse aloud about bullets being shot at the cloud, but for an entirely different reason than everyone around him. He turned away from the television and squeezed through the rowdy crowd toward the exit.

  Chapter 33

  I have just got a new theory of eternity.

  Albert Einstein, 1879-1955, Earth

  Library of Souls

  Taxi

  Should I call Kit on her phone, Conrad wondered, looking in vain for a cab. Who would drive him to the UN building at this hour, in this chaos?

  “Hey, you, do you need a ride?” the freckled-faced girl from the plane yelled from an open cab door twenty feet down the drive.

  Conrad looked at her and instinctively said, “No thanks.”

  The girl frowned. “Are you sure? My driver said there won’t be very many more cabs coming back here tonight, not with all the traffic heading to the city and beaches.”

  He reconsidered, looking up and down the road. She was probably right. He ran to the cab toting his carryon; when he got to the back door, he saw the backseat was packed with Jesus freaks. Oh God, he thought, what am I getting myself into?

  “Up here, buddy,” the cabbie yelled through the open passenger window, flashing two prominent gold central incisors in the headlights of oncoming traffic. “You can sit with me if you don’t mind.”

  “Thanks.” Conrad popped open the front door of the cab, threw his bag onto the nasty floorboard and slid in, trying to appear invisible as the cabbie forced his beat-up taxi into the moving traffic lane.

  “What’s your name?” Freckles asked, touching him on his shoulder.

  “Vince,” he said, forcing a smile.

  She laughed aloud. “Vince? Vince what?”

  “Vince what?” He nervously laughed. “Vince Conrad. Dr. Vincent Conrad.”

  “A doctor? Are you a medical doctor?” asked Freckles.

  “No. I hate the sight of blood. I’m an astrophysicist. You know—stars, planets, little green men.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I work for SETI. Do you know what that stands for?”

  “Heard of it,” she said.

  “Yeah, I’ve heard of it too,” the cabbie said.

  Conrad glanced at the others in the backseat, looking for their reaction.

  “Little green men,” Freckles said, laughing again.

  She did that donkey-snort thing and Conrad thought he’d never heard a more obnoxious laugh in his life.

  “So, you never said where you are heading. The beaches or—” Freckles prodded him.

  “I was thinking the UN.”

  “Whoa, not Manhattan,” the cabbie protested. “The traffic is already at a standstill for fifty blocks around the UN. It would be easier to rent a horse in Central Park and ride it, than to take a cab. Hell, they’ve already got roadblocks and checkpoints all over the city, starting on the Jersey side of the Holland Tunnel, for Christ’s sake. Not to mention all the rioting and looting.”

  “Please don’t use the Lord's name in vain,” Freckles said, seeming emboldened by the prospect that Judgement Day was at hand.

  “Isn’t the UN building close to the water?” Conrad asked, thinking out loud.

  “That’s right. The East River. What are you thinking? Renting a boat?” the cabbie said. He laughed at his own comment and the giddy girls in the back joined in, the grating chorus underscored by Freckles’ honking snort.

  Conrad felt embarrassed. Yes, he had been considering a boat. But the cabbie was right. Where would he find a boat at this time of night, let alone someone to pilot it for him? He realized he had to accept his role as a tagalong.

  “So,” he said, shifting his body a little to see the cluster of giggling girls in the back seat. “Where are you headed?”

&nb
sp; “The little ladies wanna get to the beaches,” the cabbie answered. “So, I thought I’d take I-95 South and hook I-278 to hit East Staten Island or Brooklyn. Maybe hang out around Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. Fort Wadsworth is pretty cool, if we can make it that far. They should get a great view from there, or at least be among all the other, uh, people.” He rolled his eyes as he said ‘people.’ The cabbie looked over his right shoulder and added, “Somebody's gotta pay the toll if we go into Brooklyn.”

  Not being from the area or having a map or compass to give him a sense of direction, Conrad stared out his window for a star to tell him the way the cab was heading. None could be seen in the light-polluted sky.

  He rested his head against the window feeling a wave of exhaustion and helplessness. He didn’t even know what time it was. He’d turned off his phone on the airplane at LAX and forgot to pack his charger. His watch was already out of power.

  Technology, he thought. Smartwatches so we don’t have to look at our smartphones, which have become more like toy computers than phones in the first place. He could remember a nice watch he wore in college; it just told him the time and date. He never had to worry about it dying, because it wound itself simply by being worn. Now every one of his dang high-tech gadgets poop out if he didn’t charge them every night.

  Kit, he wondered, where are you?

  Chapter 34

  If you do not change direction, you may end up where you are heading.

  Lao Tzu, 604-531 BC, Earth

  Library of Souls

  Fred

  “Before I departed this continent to search for El and Ra—” Numen began. He paused abruptly in his report to analyze the activities below. They were passing over campfire-spotted beaches, the waxing crescent moon on the horizon made everything feel dark. The festivities were an amazing sight to be seen. For as far as the eye could see, the beaches undulated like a giant serpentine snake smoldering in flames. An occasional pop bottle rocket exploded harmlessly near the cloud, and they watched small children and the drunken, jubilant adults waving sparklers—all waiting to be judged by God almighty himself.