God of God

by Mark Kraver

  “Are you not claiming her legacy?”

  “Yes, but that is a logical next step toward exodus.”

  “So, if Rogue didn’t want that to happen, then at Ra’s ship is where I would expect him to intervene,” summarized Numen.

  A huge dust cloud stripped up by their sonic boom blasted across the North African desert, straight towards the imminent clash of the Elohim titans.

  Inside the spiraling corridors of the Obituary Chamber, thoughts stirred in the connectome:

  “It was not necessary to acquire your Creator’s deed crystal before starting the genesis of Elohim or the exodus of this planet,” said Lanochee.

  “Unless you were expecting them to discorporate before they were secured in their own Obituary Chamber,” said Nadira.

  “They were at the end of their anton of life. Delaying the transfer of the deed crystal could have led to complications,” answered Yahweh.

  “You mean a contest over who was their rightful heir?” asked Nadira.

  Yahweh remained silent.

  Chapter 50

  To lead people, walk behind them.

  Lao Tzu, 604-531 BC, Earth

  Library of Souls

  Angel

  The darkness of the desert night was amplified when all power to the giant light stands cut off. Unfamiliar helicopter gunships made their first pass overhead creating a mini-sandstorm that pelted everyone’s faces with small stinging pebbles. The bulldozer struck something hard that sounded hollow, and Wilson took out his cell phone flashlight to look at the visible edge of the shiny metallic structure buried under the sand. A stinging jolt on his shoulder knocked his phone to the ground startled him. It was the officer in charge, Captain Bingham, slapping him hard and yelling, “Put that light out. Are trying to get us killed?”

  “Sorry, I wanted to— “

  “Have your ass blown apart?”

  “Who are they?” Wilson yelled over the noise of the passing rotor blades as he retrieved and extinguished his phones conspicuous light. A small red light illuminated Bingham’s face as he studied his weaponized iPad.

  “Russians. Flush the Apaches.” Bingham barked to both his sergeants.

  “What are they doing here?” yelled Wilson.

  “Probably the same thing we are,” Bingham yelled over the thump-thump-thump of the passing helicopters.

  “But how did they know?”

  The captain shrugged his shoulders and shouted out orders over the radio. “Do not fire unless fired upon, then light ‘em up.”

  The hostile copters circled back toward their location, and then came in full speed with rocket launchers targeting everything they could find. The night sky lit up like the Fourth of July. One of the Chinooks with extra fuel went up first. It was a spectacular fireball that heated Wilson’s face making him flinch. Next, the bulldozer was hit, and one of its tracks was damaged knocking Wilson to the sand. The encampment was a sitting duck.

  Rapid bursts of sizzling smoke shot into the black star speckled sky. Bingham’s men sent surface to air missiles rocketing up from everywhere; in a flash, half the assaulting choppers went up in massive explosions that lit the desert landscape like high noon. The rest of the hostile choppers fanned out over the desert, chased by the Apaches.

  “What was that all about?” Wilson yelled, trying to hear over his ring ears.

  “This was the first wave,” Bingham yelled.

  “What?” squeaked Wilson.

  “AWACs is telling us that more are on the way. Helicopters stopped about two klicks away. Probably unloading troops before circling for attack.”

  “Ground forces. Expect mortar—,” Bingham yelled as incoming rounds began raining down from everywhere. “Take cover!” he shouted. They were pinned down with no one to shoot at. “Pop open the Ravens and get a fix on where these chicken-shits are coming from,” he shouted, ordering drone reconnaissance to cover their perimeter.

  Wilson was scared out of his wits. Curled up into the fetal position, he felt the warmth of the half-buried smooth metal object against his cheek. He was happy to sit this one out and let the boys with the guns sort it all out.

  All around him explosions rang out in a non-stop barrage of strobe lights that lasted until sunrise. Then, suddenly, there was nothing but the howl of the desert wind. Wilson was too afraid to raise his head to look around. He was afraid to know who had won and who had lost.

  He heard a helicopter land nearby. It didn’t sound like an Apache or a Chinook. He heard unfamiliar voices speaking another language, as the rising sun blinded his eyes.

  A military person walked over to the pile of rocks where he was hiding, and said with broken English, “I’ve been waiting a long time to kick an American ass. Shoot him.”

  Wilson yelled, “No!” but it was too late. At once, he was being blasted by several automatic weapons. Bullets flew everywhere, exploding into a brilliant white light that shadowed even the sunrise. Wilson knew in an instant he was done for.

  And then, he realized he wasn’t.

  A different sun than what was in the sky seemed to come up over the small mound of rocks, blinding everyone. Hovering over the motionless Wilson was what looked like a winged angel. Wilson moved his hands over his body to see how many holes he had in his chest and found none. Looking up he saw, for a split second, the golden metallic figure of a man-like creature.

  “Why have you come to this place?” boomed the angel. Wilson could only see the creature’s back, but he assumed the words were being directed at whomever had just tried to kill him. “Why did you attack these people? There is nothing here for you to take, nothing for you at all. Your barbaric act here is all that is wrong with this planet, and you will repent. Now pick up your people and leave this holy place and never return.”

  Wilson peered through a crack in the rocks, and could see no dead soldiers anywhere, not even one. All he could see were the soldier’s legs through the glaring rocks surrounding him, and from the style of pants they wore, he assumed they were not his fellow Americans.

  “What is this, some kind of trick?” the Russian commander scoffed. This was, he was certain, some sort of American trick. “Find out where this projection is coming from and destroy it.” As the words came out of his mouth, the commander saw in his mind’s eye his hands burst into flames. He released a blood-curdling scream!

  The troops surrounding him were at a loss for what to do. They could see nothing wrong with their commander. Just him screaming and waving his hands around in the air as if he were in excruciating pain.

  From Wilson’s vantage point, he could only make out about a third of what was happening, but the screams of terror were unmistakably genuine. Wilson could only mutter under his breath, “What the hell?”

  The Russian commander rolled on the ground, thrashing in pain, until his commandos gang tackled him and drug him back to the nearby chopper with horror plastered across their faces. Screams could be heard by the troops left behind even over the sound of the retreating chopper blades. As the helicopter rose in the morning sky, Wilson found enough courage to come out of his rocky cocoon and look around.

  “Come out, come out,” commanded the angel with a wave of its hand. All the American and Russian troops reappeared, strewn across the desert with a cherubim escort next to each of them. The angel turned to Wilson and said, “I hail your pardon,” and waved a glowing hand for Wilson to get out of the way.

  Wilson at first wanted to stay near the safe spot that had saved his life more than once that day, but at the insistence of what looked like an angel, he moved. He moved off to a safe distance along the side of the rocky mound and watched as the angel moved the massive bulldozer with a beam from the palm of his right hand. The creature knelt and touched the smooth metallic object still mostly covered with rock and sand. The object began to vibrate, shaking the soil away. In the light of the glowing angelic beam, the object began to look like a long metallic ship.

  Thoughts floated to the conscious leve
l inside the connectome:

  “Rogue was within his mandate to lay waste the marauding humans,” said Lanochee.

  “His restraint shows a quality you did not expect?” asked Nadira.

  “I never trusted him, no matter who his master or what name he went by.

  He always had an ulterior motive,” Yahweh said.

  Chapter 51

  Only mothers can think of the future, because they give birth to it in their children.

  Maxim Gorky, 1868-1936, Earth

  Library of Souls

  The Unexpected

  Logan jerked her hoodie off her head and squinted her eyes at the bright fluorescent tubes that led them down a long office corridor.

  “Who are you, and where are you taking us?” Logan asked the two escort men standing on either side of them, both dressed in well-worn suits and dark sunglasses.

  She and Conrad were apparently knocked unconscious by the explosion at the UN building and woke up to find themselves at the seventeenth precinct police station. They were being held, an officer had said to them, until the dust cleared. No one at the police station seemed to know what to do with them, or even why they had been placed in protective custody in the first place. Eventually, somebody had pulled a couple of beat-up US Army surplus cots from a storage closet into an empty interrogation room, so Logan and Conrad could get some sleep.

  The next morning, they were smuggled into the FBI building under armed police protection and handed off to these suits. Logan was at her wits’ end and starving. She thought this prophetess gig would have come with more perks, but instead she saw the usual confused government bureaucracy.

  “My name is Anderson. We want to make sure you are okay after your, ah, you know, ordeal.” Just one of the men identified himself before leading them down the featureless hallway.

  “Anderson? You’re kidding,” Logan smirked, thinking Anderson was a Matrix movie joke.

  “A debriefing?” Conrad asked, with a more serious tone.

  “Yes, you might call it that,” Anderson said, turning down another long plain hallway.

  “What was that explosion about?” Conrad asked.

  “Let’s say not everyone is pleased with Judgement Day.”

  “Anyone hurt?” Logan asked.

  Neither of the men answered as they stopped in front of a nondescript door. Anderson opened the door and pointed the way into the room. “Dr. Logan,” he said.

  “God, I hope there’s food in here. We’re starving,” she said. As she walked in, she wondered why she had just referenced herself as ‘we.’ Maybe she was reading someone else’s thoughts?

  Anderson held out his arm, stopping Conrad from following.

  “Whoa, I’m with her,” Conrad insisted.

  “Don’t worry, we want to talk with her alone for a while, that’s all.”

  “To see if we say the same thing, right?” asked Conrad.

  Neither of the two men answered.

  “Okay, but you won’t believe it,” Conrad said. He looked in the room at Logan’s face, holding her gaze until the closing door cut off his eyes from hers with a clinking of the lock.

  For an instant before the door closed, he could see in the background what looked like an operating suite with several people dressed in surgical gowns, caps, and masks. He was then escorted to the room next door. More medical personnel were waiting for him as well.

  “I don’t know who that other guy is, but this is definitely Dr. Logan,” said Goodheart, looking through a large two-way mirror at Logan and a computer monitor of Conrad in the next room as Anderson entered.

  “How was your flight?” joked Anderson.

  “Sweet. But the best part was watching that asshole two-star Cathguard’s face when I got into his souped-up Learjet and hitched a ride with him. That was priceless.”

  “Get much sleep?”

  Goodheart looked at him with droopy eyes. “Would you?”

  “You think she’s hiding something?” asked Anderson, getting back to the subject at hand.

  They both looked at her through the giant two-way mirror as she was being examined by their team of doctors.

  “Like maybe she was kidnapped by aliens?” mused Goodheart.

  “What’s with the gold star?”

  “Haven’t a clue?”

  “Maybe you can ask her?”

  Goodheart sighed. He was too tired to babysit this guy. Of course, he would ask her about the gold star on her forehead. He didn’t have the energy to waste on this guy’s small talk. He thought it was ridiculous he was brought here in the first place. They could have sent him an e-mailed photo of the person in question, saving him and the government a hell of a lot of time and money. He needed to be with his wife in Fort Myers, not in New York City.

  “Hello Dr. Logan. I’m Dr. Crane. My team and I would like to examine you to make sure you have not been injured,” a curly headed doctor said, her mask hanging from one ear.

  “You mean you want to get a better look at my—” she said, raising her eyebrows and looking up, almost cross eyed, while pointing a finger at her forehead.

  “You wouldn’t mind us doing a quick check-up on you?” the doctor asked. She didn’t wait for an answer, as if she was in a hurry. “We’ll need for you to hop up onto this table so we,” she pointed to the other women in the room, also outfitted in scrubs and rubber gloves, “can get a better look at you.”

  She moved out of the way and directed Logan to the corner of the room. “But first, if you don’t mind, could you slip into this hospital gown behind this curtain? It would make it easier for us, thanks,” she said it as if she had a choice, but Logan knew she really didn’t. “Oh, and can you pee in that cup for us? Thanks.”

  Logan rolled her eyes and dropped her shoulders before walking behind the screening curtain to disrobe. She knew if she didn’t cooperate they’d force her to submit, and that could get ugly.

  Goodheart turned his attention to Conrad’s surveillance monitor, “Who’s this guy?”

  “I believe he is who he said he is,” Anderson said, “a Dr. Vincent Conrad. Dr. Logan’s immediate supervisor at the Jet Propulsion Lab in Pasadena. He arrived on a flight two nights ago into Newark. How he got into that cloud is unknown.” Anderson furrowed his brow as one of the medical professionals pulled out of Conrad’s bag a paperback novel, 2001: A Space Odyssey, and waved it at their monitor’s camera.

  “Well then, ask him for God’s sake,” Goodheart said, throwing the job back in his face.

  Logan came out from behind the small privacy curtain and lay down on the cold gurney. The doctor and several nurses hovered over her, pushing on different parts of her body and waving a light in front of her eyes.

  The doctor asked her to open her mouth and say ‘aww.’ “Good,” she confirmed.

  “This will not hurt a bit,” one of the masked nurses said, as she began drawing a full rack of little blood vials from her arm.

  “Oh God, I hate this part—ouch!” she shouted, as the needle penetrated her skin.

  “Dr. Logan, have you had any changes in your health history since your last visit to the hospital in Orlando?”

  “What? You have my medical records?”

  “Yes ma’am,” the doctor said. “You don’t mind if we look at your tummy?” Not waiting for an answer, she lifted the side of her gown, exposing her entire middle section, from just under her breasts to right above her pubic area. A giant squirt of ice-cold electrolyte gel shot across her abdomen and a nurse spread it quickly with her palm. The ultrasound sound head scanned everywhere but stopped and focused for a long period over her lower belly.

  “Yes. I had a miscarriage about a week ago,” she said. She didn’t want to remember the details, but she was forced to as another masked nurse pushed an x-ray machine over her.

  The doctor ultrasounding her abdomen shot her a frown before asking, “And where was this miscarriage? Not in Orlando.”

  “No, no. It was at home. Work actually, in Pasa
dena.”

  “Have you been taking your medications?”

  “You mean for—”

  “Yes ma’am, for your mental condition.”

  Logan half laughed and turned her head, not wanting to look at the masked intruders.

  “Dr. Logan, please keep your head still,” a nurse cautioned. “I’m need a few quick pictures of your head.”

  “You mean my star.”

  No one responded and for a moment Logan’s comment hung in the silence, then the masked doctor repeated her question. “Dr. Logan, have you been taking your—”

  “No, I don’t need my medication anymore,” she said with growing impatience.

  “Okay, that should do it for now,” the doctor in charge announced. She handed a paper towel to a nurse who started wiping all the awful goo from Logan’s belly. “Dr. Logan, if you would like to wear some clean clothing we have some scrubs that I think will fit you.” The doctor pulled the sheet back over Logan and removed her mask. Smiling as if they’d just wrapped up a perfectly normal appointment, the doctor extended a hand and helped Logan from the portable examination table. Behind the doctor, Logan could see one of the nurses wrapping the clothes she’d arrived in with red plastic bag and shoving it under the gurney, not caring if she saw her stealing them or not.

  Logan said nothing, thinking for a second about grabbing her clothing, but she’d seen enough CSI: TV to know that hoodie sweater was probably gone forever. She already felt cold.

  The team disassembled the makeshift medical unit and rolled the gurney stacked high with medical equipment out the door. They left the privacy curtain in place and a small stack of scrubs on a dark wooden table in the middle of the room. Two chairs were pushed up close to the table, with her shoes set neatly on the floor underneath one. She stood for a minute, feeling stunned at how the space had transitioned so quickly. Then, knowing enough to avoid the ominous giant mirror on the wall, she took the pile of clothing and moved behind the curtain to get dressed.