by Mike Resnick
“I think I’ll play it by ear, Solomon. But this much I know: the ground will turn red with blood before I’m done. So it is written; so it must be.” He finished his beer. “Now why don’t you show me how the communications system works?”
He unlocked the door, and the two of them walked into the main office, where almost two dozen soldiers lay in a trancelike sleep.
“Ah!” said Jeremiah, his face lighting up with interest as he walked over to a bank of radios. “Look at all this lovely machinery. I’ve never understood computers and electrical systems, Solomon, but they have always impressed the hell out of me.”
“What do you intend to do?” asked Moore.
“Address my people.”
“They’re forty miles away.”
“You still don’t understand,” said Jeremiah. “All people are my people.” He looked around the room. “Is there some public address system here?”
“Who do you want to reach?”
“The whole city.”
“I suppose you’d have to rig the air-raid sirens to a microphone.”
“And where is the control panel for the sirens?”
Moore pointed it out.
Jeremiah found the massive line that powered the sirens, ripped it out of the panel, and wrapped the exposed ends around a portable microphone that he appropriated from one of the radios.
“You’ll electrocute yourself,” said Moore.
Jeremiah merely laughed.
“At any rate, you’ll never be able to turn that into a PA system.”
“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” said Jeremiah. “Turn the power on.”
Moore flipped the appropriate switch.
“MY PEOPLE!” said Jeremiah, and Moore felt the building vibrate as the earsplitting sound permeated the still night air of the city. “I AM JEREMIAH, COME TO LAY CLAIM TO THAT WHICH IS MINE.
“PREPARE YOURSELVES! THE EARTH WILL CATCH FIRE, AND THE RIVERS WILL FLOW RED, AND NOT A BLADE OF GRASS WILL REMAIN STANDING! THE DAY OF THE LORD IS AT HAND!”
Chapter 26
The next morning—October 4, 2051—Jeremiah set up temporary headquarters in the penthouse of a luxury hotel on the outskirts of the Old City. He ordered a general amnesty for all Israeli citizens and soldiers who had opposed him.
Moore, who had spent the remainder of the night trying to assimilate what he had learned, made a pair of long-distance calls to Rabbi Milton Greene, bought a copy of the Talmud, and vanished from sight.
On October 5, Jeremiah issued orders that Moore was to be shot if he attempted to leave the city.
Moore remained in hiding.
On October 6, Jeremiah paid a visit to Prime Minister Weitzel and accompanied him to a closed cabinet meeting and an emergency session of the Knesset.
Moore remained in hiding, and waited.
On October 7, Jeremiah called a press conference and announced that he was abolishing the Knesset.
Moore remained in hiding, and waited.
On October 8, Jeremiah summoned two hundred of his own officers from the plains and hills beyond the city and put them in charge of the Israeli Army. The remainder of his followers were instructed to return to their homelands and await the further biddings of their Messiah.
Moore remained in hiding, and waited.
On October 9, Moira Rallings showed up. Ashen as ever, she remained at Jeremiah’s side as he went about the business of consolidating the various branches of the government, making them more immediately responsive to his needs.
Moore remained in hiding, and waited.
On October 10, Jeremiah held another press conference and announced that he intended to make Moira his Queen. She looked as surprised as the reporters, but offered no objection.
Moore remained in hiding, and waited.
On October 11, Jeremiah executed some seven thousand Israeli men and women who still opposed him and offered an ultimatum to Syria, Jordan, Lebanon, and Egypt: accept his divinity and his authority, or suffer the consequences.
Moore remained in hiding, and waited.
On October 12, Jeremiah offered the same ultimatum to all other Middle East nations, and suggested that dissenters would do well to read the prophets of the Old Testament.
Moore remained in hiding, and waited.
On October 13 (which shunned historical tidiness by falling on a Wednesday rather than a Friday), Jeremiah presided at his own coronation in the ceremony that gave official sanction to the already acknowledged fact that Israel had crossed over the line from democracy to monarchy.
And Moore was all through waiting.
Chapter 27
Jeremiah’s penthouse, situated at the eastern edge of the Old City, overlooked the broad expanse of Dayan Boulevard. Moore took a cab to the front door of the building, walked across the tiled lobby, and was approaching an elevator when two soldiers barred his way.
“What’s your business here?” demanded one of them.
“I’m here to see Jeremiah.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” said the soldier, “but Jeremiah is not seeing visitors.”
“He’ll see me,” said Moore.
“No one is allowed upstairs without a priority pass.”
“Why not phone him and tell him that Solomon Moody Moore is in the lobby?”
“Moore,” repeated the soldier, frowning. “I know that name. There was some order concerning you.”
“The phone?” repeated Moore.
The soldier stared at him for a moment, ordered his companion to keep an eye on him, and walked to a house phone. He returned less than a minute later.
“I’m sorry for the inconvenience, Mr. Moore. He’ll see you immediately. Take the last elevator on the left; it goes directly to the penthouse.”
Moore thanked him, entered the elevator, and emerged a few seconds later on the top floor of the building, at the edge of a large, luxurious sitting room. Jeremiah was nowhere to be seen, but Moira Rallings was seated on a plush velvet sofa, reading a magazine.
“Hello, Moira,” said Moore. “It’s been a long time.”
“Hello, Mr. Moore,” she replied. “Have you read my book yet?”
“Hasn’t everyone?” he responded with a smile.
“I want to apologize for some of the less flattering references to you,” she said. “I had no idea who and what you were when I was writing it. Everything will be corrected in the revised edition.”
“Your apology is accepted,” said Moore, as Jeremiah, wearing a white silk robe, entered the room.
“Have a seat, Solomon,” he said pleasantly. “I’ve been wondering what happened to you.” He opened a bottle of wine and filled three glasses. “Care for a drink?”
Moore shook his head. “Why in the world would I want to drink with you?”
“To help me celebrate,” answered Jeremiah. “After all, I couldn’t have done it without you and my oversexed little Boswell here.”
“And now that you’ve done it, have you decided what you’re going to do with me?” asked Moore.
“I’ve been giving the matter considerable thought, Solomon,” replied Jeremiah. “You seem to be a little different from the rest of the sheep. They all love me these days, but I get the distinct impression that you still nurture hostile feelings.”
“Maybe they don’t know how many people you intend to kill,” said Moore.
“It’s got to be done, Solomon,” said Jeremiah easily. “Millions upon millions must die. But that’s beside the point, said point being what I intend to do with you. I must confess that you are turning into an embarrassment to me. I mean, after all these years of futility, you still harbor thoughts of killing me. Don’t bother to deny it; the bulge under your coat is unmistakable.”
“You mean this?” asked Moore, withdrawing a wicked-looking revolver.
“What good would it do, Solomon?” laughed Jeremiah. “I can’t be killed. Hell, I don’t even have my soldiers inspect visitors for concealed weapons.”
“I kno
w. I made sure of that before I came.”
“If you shoot me,” continued Jeremiah, totally ignoring the revolver, “I’ll lie near death for a day or two, and by the end of the week I’ll be as good as new. And my retribution will be considerably harsher than what you did to me back in Cincinnati.”
Moore shook his head and sighed. “When Moira writes of your last days on Earth, she’s going to point out the basic tragedy of your nature: that your intelligence, despite its admittedly rapid gains, never quite caught up with the rest of you.” He pulled a silencer out of his pocket and screwed it onto the muzzle of the gun.
“You’re crazy!” snapped Jeremiah. “Nothing can kill me! You know that!”
“I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about that,” said Moore. “That’s why I’ve been avoiding you until today—because I didn’t want you to force me to act before I was ready.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” demanded Jeremiah.
“Why can’t you be killed?” asked Moore, cocking the hammer.
“Because nothing—not you, not anyone, not anything—can stop me from establishing my kingdom in Jerusalem!”
“Very good, Jeremiah,” said Moore, pointing the pistol at him. “And what particular event took place today?”
Jeremiah merely stared at him, wild-eyed, for a long moment. Then a look of dawning comprehension and terror slowly spread across his face.
“That’s right, Jeremiah,” said Moore softly. “And that’s why I didn’t want to see you before now. But as of this afternoon you are the King of Jerusalem, indeed of all Israel. You’ve done what you were destined to do, you’ve served your purpose and fulfilled the prophecies—and now you’re fair game.”
“No!” screamed Jeremiah. “It can’t end like this! First the sword, then the fire, then—”
“An interesting theory,” said Moore. “Let’s put it to the test.”
He fired the pistol.
Jeremiah staggered backward into a wall, clutched at the rapidly spreading red stain on his chest, and collapsed to the floor. He moaned twice, convulsed, and then lay still.
Moore walked over to him, picked up his hand, and felt for a pulse.
There wasn’t any. He put four more bullets into Jeremiah’s temple, then turned to Moira.
“I made you a promise a long time ago,” he said quietly. “Do you remember?”
Moira nodded, her eyes aglow with excitement.
“I’m keeping it now,” said Moore. “He’s all yours.”
Moira scurried across the room, no trace of sorrow or remorse on her face, and knelt down beside Jeremiah’s body. She lifted his bloody head to her lap and began stroking it passionately, murmuring words that Moore couldn’t quite make out. He watched her for a moment, grimaced, and then looked around for a telephone. He found one, and placed a call to Chicago.
“Pryor here,” said a familiar voice a few minutes later.
“Hello, Ben.”
“Solomon!” exclaimed Pryor. “How are things out there?”
“Everything’s under control. I killed Jeremiah not five minutes ago.”
“How?”
“I’ll tell you all about it when I get home.”
“Uh … Solomon?”
“Yes?”
“Maybe you’d better tell me about it on the phone.”
“Trouble?”
“Not exactly … not for me. But I’ve waited a long time to sit in this chair, and I don’t think I want to give it up.”
“I see,” said Moore softly.
“You always encouraged ambition, Solomon.”
“I know I did, Ben.”
“It’s nothing personal,” continued Pryor. “But as soon as I hang up the phone, I’m putting out a hit on you. It’s business, Solomon.”
“No hard feelings, Ben,” replied Moore. “But you’ve just signed your own death warrant.”
“We’ll see, Solomon,” said Pryor. “But for your own good, stay away. I’ve uncovered your spies and taken care of them, and I just entered into a partnership with Piper Black. He’ll be putting out a hit, too.”
“Fair enough, Ben,” said Moore. “But you’ve got something that’s mine, and I’m going to get it back.”
“You’re welcome to try.”
“No quarter asked or given?”
“None,” agreed Pryor, sounding just a little less sure of himself.
“I’ll be seeing you soon, Ben,” promised Moore.
He hung up the phone and walked to a window. Hundreds of soldiers and civilians were scurrying about their business, completely unaware of what had happened three hundred feet above their heads.
“Moira?”
“Yes, Mr. Moore,” she said, wiping some of Jeremiah’s blood from her face.
“I kept my promise to you. Now I want you to do me a favor.”
“What favor, Mr. Moore?”
“Give me a six-hour head start before you tell anyone what happened in here. Will you do that?”
She looked down at Jeremiah’s body for a moment, then met Moore’s eyes. “Six hours,” she said, nodding her head.
He took one last look at them, the corpse-lover and the corpse, and then, tucking the pistol into the back of his belt, he entered the elevator.
Chapter 28
He stole a Land Rover that was parked near the building and drove to the southwest, passing into Egypt and continuing on for another four hours before he ran out of gas. Then he got out, pushed the vehicle into a small gorge, and started walking.
By midday the heat had become oppressive, and, slightly dehydrated, he climbed into the foothills of a nearby mountain, seeking out the slowly shifting shade. When darkness fell he decided to spend the night there rather than chance meeting his pursuers on foot in the desert. The temperature fell sharply, and he gathered some shrubbery and built a small fire, huddling over it to keep warm.
Finally he lay down, pillowing his head on his right arm, and went to sleep.
Sometime later he awoke with a start. The moon was directly overhead, the stars shone down brightly, and there was no trace of wind. Yet something had awakened him, and he got to his feet, prepared to search for intruders.
Then he noticed that one of the bushes he had set fire to some hours earlier was still burning, and he walked over to it. It shimmered with a cold glow and seemed to pulsate with energy.
And suddenly, within his head, he heard a voice speak out in stentorian tones.
Why hast thou killed My Messiah?
“Who are you?” demanded Moore.
I am that I am.
“I must be dreaming,” he muttered to himself, looking into the shadows beyond the fire for a sign of life.
Solomon Moore, why hast thou spilled the blood of him that I sent? The bush became brighter with each word.
“Where are you?”
I am here, where I have always been, for before this was Mount Sinai it was Mount Horeb, and it was here that I spake to Mosheh.
“Then why didn’t you send someone like Moses?” said Moore bitterly. “Why a bloodthirsty fool like Jeremiah?”
I owe you no explanation. It was enough that he was the one, and you slew him.
“And I’d do it again!” snapped Moore. “Where were you when we needed you? Why didn’t you send a little help during the Inquisition, or save your chosen people from the Nazis? What kept you?”
Thou hast killed him.
The unspoken words grew louder, and the light of the fire became so bright that Moore couldn’t look at it.
“Yes, I killed him!” yelled Moore in a cold fury. “But you chose him. Which of us is guiltier?”
I hereby annul my covenant with man! Never again shall I concern myself with your affairs.
“We’ll get by!” Moore shouted at the skies. “We got along just fine when you were too busy to bother with us, and we’ll get along now!”
There was no answer, and, unable to sleep, he wandered through the foothills for the remainder o
f the night. Then, as the sun began rising, he stepped out into the desert.
The coming days and months and years weren’t going to be easy ones.
Pryor controlled what was left of his organization, and probably had fifty hired killers out after him already. Black would have fifty more.
Behind him an entire nation would be mobilizing its army for the sole purpose of finding and executing him. Thirty million people across the face of the planet would be screaming for his blood.
But, regardless of their numbers, they were just people, and he had made his fortune by his ability to manipulate them. He thought of the events of the past two days, of what he had done and what company he had kept, then raised his eyes and sought out the horizon.
Somewhere out there, beyond the vast expanse of desert, was the Gulf of Aqaba. Beyond that was the Red Sea, and the Suez Canal, and a way home. Along the way, he would have to evade tens of thousands of enemies and reclaim a financial empire. But at least he wouldn’t die of boredom—and in this day and age, on this world that he had inadvertently helped to shape, that was sufficient.
He took a deep breath, released it slowly, and began walking.
He looked forward to the challenge.
About the Author
Mike Resnick, was a popular and prolific American science fiction author. He is, according to Locus, the all-time leading award winner, living or dead, for short science fiction. He won five Hugos, a Nebula, and other major awards in the United States, France, Spain, Japan, Croatia, and Poland. and has been short-listed for major awards in England, Italy, and Australia. He was the author of 68 novels, over 250 stories, and 2 screenplays, and was the editor of 41 anthologies. His work has been translated into 25 languages. He was the Guest of Honor at the 2012 WorldCon. Mike Resnick passed away in 2020.
If You Liked …
If you liked The Branch, you might also enjoy:
Walpurgis III