by J E Kerry
He calms down, taking good stock of his breath. Slowly and measuredly, Brooks narrates the new chapter.
“Council-ladies and gentlemen, this part of the story should be more familiar to ‘us’. Even our younger council members,” he adds with a meaningful glance at the younger councilmen and women.
“By the time natural catastrophes around the globe had already destroyed 95% of the world’s architecture, new continents began to emerge. What had been once called Europe was swallowed whole within hours by the melted ice of the north pole, heavy tsunamis, rain, and moving continental plates that began to form a large ocean. It seemed as though the world would turn upside-down and clean its surface, getting rid of the old to make space for the new.”
Again, another pause, Brooks letting his point sink in.
“When the day of the ‘meeting’, as they called the closest encounter between Earth and the comet, arrived, the natural terraformation had been completed, and the three new continents of post-apocalyptic Earth were formed.
That was when the A-Nation officially saw its first light, representing the Asian (the largest with China, Russia, and all the other former Asian countries), African and American continents as a global alliance with one goal: the repopulation of Earth’s surface.
The next step was, to create artificial sunlight that would allow nature and technology to merge and force the growth process of flora and fauna. And that’s why Russia offered to launch its immense solar reflector into the Earth’s orbit, illuminating all dark sides of the planet.
And then came those who loathed seeing such an established and organized world order basking in prosperity,” avers Counselor Brooks, his voice taking on a new edge and tint that signals the beginning of another series of events.
The VR view of the planet zooms in on cyborgs marching into frame toward the large campsite of the ‘Rebels’. This time Brooks’ voice has fully assumed a hard, angry edge to it; and he is not alone in his sentiment. It is the part of the story that is relatable to everyone seated as it affects them and their families either directly or indirectly.
Brooks drags on with the tale many parts sordid.
“The Rebels were and still are a rogue and corrupt group of former shadow government politicians, CEOs and military high ranks who worship the OWO and were responsible for a global genocidal event that started the ‘Rebel Wars’ of 2305. Their goal was, to wipe out 80% of the world’s population and reset history by creating their elite army of mortal gods and reinstate the OWO of the newly terraformed Earth.
The Rebel Wars were biochemical acts of terrorism, lasting for five years in the sky after the A-Nation was already founded and the sun stood still. In the wake of the war, about 40% of the world’s population lost their lives through an artificially mutated influenza virus that would only target a specific type of humans which were non-Caucasian, while the surviving 60% had to migrate once more and were suddenly with neither home nor nation.
A huge number of mixed-race babies emerged during that time to create an antivirus and stabilize the situation. They became known as the Tube-Mix Baby Generation.”
A cursory glance around the room lays bare the facts behind Counselor Brooks’ story. The extreme emotions felt by some of the older non-Caucasian members of the council and the marvel of the younger council members, some of whom bear the tell-tale signs of the aforementioned baby generation.
“In a truly unprecedented act of calculated wickedness,” continues an audibly pained Counselor, “the Rebels used the airship water reservoirs to poison the population, leading to high fever, stiffened neck, reddish-purple rash, seizures, respiratory failure, and finally death. Once the virus reached its host and manifested, it could be transferred via sweat, saliva, even the lightest touch was lethal.”
Brooks halts once more. This part of the story is a tad bit difficult to tell, but he soldiers on valiantly.
“After many attempts to kill the Rebels, up to the highest ranks in the A-Nation Council, the genius of a scientist, namely Tito Tinibu, to you known as Counselor Tinibu, eventually developed a highly advanced DEW (directed-energy-weapon), based on microwave and frequency-modulation for induced cell-death followed by the targeted elimination of the enemy.
That’s when we also created our first cyborg army against the Rebels, and eventually won the war,” Brooks finishes his discourse finally settling on a victorious note; the kind that comes only with poetic justice and sweet revenge as everyone watches the cyborg captain calling for battle and the cyborgs storming the campsite with their DEW devices.
Unlike the light EBA (environmental body armor) of the cyborg soldiers, their captain is entirely covered in a heavy black EWCA (exoskeleton warlord combat armor), including his face which is concealed by a hi-tech helmet with sharp edges and several visible optical features.
“Beaten to the very core, the few remaining Rebels escaped underground and to the mountains, waiting for their day of revenge ever since,” Brooks says as he takes off his HVRB and looks across the sea of faces in the council hall, some of which are still washed over with emotion.
Most of them look happy, others (especially the younger ones) rather bored. The young counselor who had pestered him with questions, however, appears intrigued and listens carefully.
“We are not, by any means, perfect,” Brooks resumes, masterfully switching from the dynamic storyteller to a senior counselor, addressing and giving charges to younger colleagues.
“As human beings, we possess the innate ability to create, destroy, and recreate,” he straightens and takes several steps to the center of the hall, walking with the confident air of an army commander before his officers.
As he walks, Brooks stares the councilmen in the eye, looking out for their reactions and the effect his words are having.
“We have learned from our mistakes and fought for our rights. We have endured ages of political manipulation, corporate corruption, and military suppression. We have not only killed each other but also Mother Nature. We have made promises that we couldn’t keep because our ‘ego’ poisoned the heart. And we have waited for far too long to cut the borders, coming together as one nation.”
He takes a moment of contemplation before continuing with his remarks and projections. “However, the hardest challenges that will define us as a species are still yet to come.”
One of the council members, young and Caucasian, doesn’t pay much attention to the speech and yawns warily. Another council member, also young but Chinese, checks his emails on the very high-end HBP (holographic bracelet phone), via the futuristic version of the Chinese messaging application QQ-Mail.
“All we can do is follow the path that we have set for ourselves,” Brooks says, suddenly being interrupted by the explosive entrance of Commander Wu (Wu), Chinese and militant.
His skintight white jumpsuit accentuates his natural features and places emphasis on his solid frame, highlighted by two thick golden stripes representing his rank as commander, running down the core of his chest and abdomen from the collarbone to his groin where the stripes go their separate ways around either side of his body, much like a belt and suspenders.
The commander takes several long strides to Counselor Brooks and whispers anxiously into his ear. A wave of concern sours Brooks’ expression, and he addresses the council members.
“I must apologize, but this summit is adjourned. A matter of international security requires our attention. I request the High Council remain logged on. Everyone else, you are excused.”
Brooks and Wu head for the exit and through the spacious hallway to their next destination: The High Council Meeting Room.
∞∞∞
The light-flooded room is dominated by a middle-sized, circular table, dead square at its center. There are four seats with accessible touchpads at each of them which are capable of generating their holograms for every user, and a hole for the mainframe in the very middle of that table. Right opposite the entry door is a large window, overlook
ing the mountain range of the AN-CDC.
The High Council awaits Commander Wu and Counselor Brooks who enter the room as Wu looks nervously at the faces of remaining avatars.
“Forgive my intrusion Counselors, but we have just received a request from an unknown mothership to enter the Earth’s atmosphere,” he begins, his normally calm, commanding exterior ashen with uneasiness and tension.
The piercing gazes of the High Council do nothing to enhance his discomfiture.
“Did you identify who was aboard?” Commander Wu shifts his focus to Russian Counselor Azarov (Azarov).
In his 30s, Azarov is a tall and very good-looking man. His appearance and carriage make him perfect for a Casanova role in a theatre drama. He is a very ambitious high-ranking military officer who gives no room for second guesses and indecision, and he naturally expresses his concerns about the strange arrival of a ship that could be a potential threat or potential ally.
“All we know is, a deal was struck in 2035 between the president of the former United States of America and an as of yet unknown extra-terrestrial race,” Commander Wu replies shakily, suddenly bereft of composure.
The high-ranking military man tightens his jaw at Wu’s response. He finds the Commander’s jittery disposition somewhat annoying and wonders what detail he could be missing. Surely it couldn’t merely just be the arrival of a spaceship.
“But that was centuries ago,” Azarov notes skeptically. “Do you mean to imply that such an important deal has been kept from the Council since the A-Nation was founded?”
“I assure you, Counselor Brooks was unaware of the situation,” Wu says, still trying to regain his composure and steely exterior. “Let me show you this.”
He uses his HWB (holographic wristband) to sync with the mainframe of the room and blow up a hologram in the center of that table, showing the image of the original agreement between the United States of America and the alien race. The document that seems to have created a world of problems rotates around the table to the view of the High Councilmen seated.
“The United States of America officially signed with the ambassador of the Galactic Federation of Free Worlds on a 50-hectare island to be colonized as of 2341. Until then, and in return, they would release secrets to us about the higher sciences of nanotechnology, bioengineering, and cybernetics.”
The rich, bassy voice of queer British African Counselor Tinibu (Tinibu), 65, a passionate and gifted scientist who literally saved the world with the afore mentioned DEW device, and with the mind of a mathematical genius, an exquisite taste in fashion and the charm of good old TV and Radio presenter Graham Norton, catches him.
“You can’t be serious!” the avatar of Counselor Tinibu exclaims discernibly shocked to his marrows.
Commander Wu does not say anything, clearly trying to gather his wits, while Counselor Brooks stands with arms folded right next to him, looking grim and sour. The impassioned discourse he had been engaged in the last half-hour runs through his mind in spades as he is trying to decipher this enigma, crisscrossing events, analyzing patterns, and figuring out where he missed the plot.
Tinibu takes the silence as a ‘Yes’ and shakes his head, seemingly overwhelmed by a disturbing realization.
“Do you mean to say, the evolution of our society is entirely based on this deal?” he continues as his avatar jumps up from the chair, pacing up and down while also trying to keep calm.
Everything they had achieved, every discovery, the very survival of the planet itself. Everything that once made him proud of himself and his people is now crumbling down to pieces.
“We should have known better. I’ve always been quite suspicious about how certain technologies emerged and boosted the evolution of our society, not to mention how quickly we adapted. It somehow always appeared at the right time, out of nowhere.”
“So, what’s the status?” a clearly exasperated Azarov cuts in and tries to get the facts straight. As a man of action and few words, he hates dwelling on an issue for too long.
“They await our final permission and hope that the American authorities will keep their part of the deal as promised,” Commander Wu replies somewhat unconvincingly.
“And if not?” Azarov questions as Chinese Counselor Tsung (Tsung), in his 60s, mysterious and with the touch of a Taoist alchemist, straightens next to him. His long white hair tied up to a bun on his head and a beard framing his chiseled jawline make him the ‘wise one’ in this round.
The High Council in general, is ruled by four individuals governing three continents: Counselor Brooks, representing the West, Counselor Tinibu, representing the Non-Aligned Powers, and Counselor Tsung and Azarov, representing the Eastern Bloc. From this governing triangle, a single counselor is elected as Chairman, with the 4 of them together composing the UA-THC, United A-Nation Troika High Council of Earth.
Tsung, the current Chairman of the council, visually distinguishes himself in rank from the rest by the addition of four half-necklaces of pearl and a red and blue denotation above the left breast pocket of his silver-white Shalwar Kameez; the Chairman’s white chiffon coat being a symbol of highest authority among the counselors.
His air is authoritative and his voice firm when he speaks. He uses his Chinese diplomacy to lead the focus in a different direction. One that would not be too obvious except to one has spent thoughtful hours contemplating.
“It seems this deal was made before the continental shift and the establishment of the A-Nation Council,” Tsung affirms eyeing Counselor Brooks warily. “It, therefore, falls into the jurisdiction and responsibility of the A-DC (American Dome City).”
“Thank you, Counselor Tsung,” Brooks replies, still trying to wrap his head around the situation. “I absolutely agree. As long as the United A-Nation’s Constitution isn’t violated, they shall be treated as visitors and we should do our best to keep a friendly and diplomatic atmosphere.”
“There might be something else,” Wu notes with a concerned undertone. The lines of worry still crease his face as he is about to belt out even more unpleasant details.
“Commander?” Counselor Brooks asks, wondering what could still be amiss. Somehow, he suspects again there is more to the story, and he isn’t going to like the outcome.
“Historically speaking,” Wu begins, yet slightly hesitant, “this planet belongs to them”.
“Come again?” Tinibu widens his eyes, frowning.
“They don’t need our permission,” Wu exhales with an expression of frustration, “their request was more of a polite formality”.
“Why didn’t I calculate that?” Tinibu mumbles disappointedly to himself, shaking his head.
“They have a type of diplomatic immunity,” the commander continues.
“Under whose diplomacy?” Brooks asks with a rising voice.
“Who cares?! They’re in control. We’re just some algorithms in their master theorem,” Tinibu fires, gesturing with his hands.
“Let me introduce you to Professor Jason Crown (Crown). He’s the last living historian able to confirm more on ancient texts and lost history. His specialty lies in the forbidden scriptures of the Vatican and other sacred items that were kept hidden from the public,” Wu suggests, blowing up the avatar of the professor, a 40-year-old Scot, slightly disheveled and with restless, intelligent blue eyes, a dashing personality, and an even more pleasantly cute smile.
“Welcome Professor,” he continues with a sigh of relief as the glares shift away from him for a moment. “Please, tell the counselors what you know.”
“Thank you, High Council,” he begins with the eagerness of a child seeing a new toy for the first time.
“My ancestors belonged to a protectorate of mankind’s evolution. It was their duty to safeguard a variety of artifacts, including the ‘Scrolls of Enoch’. In 1773, one of my forefathers, the famous Scottish explorer, writer and Freemason James Bruce of Kinnaird returned after a decade of traveling and studying in North East Africa and Abyssinia to France. With
him, he carried three Ethiopian copies of the lost Book of Enoch and presented a unique copy of it to Louis XV in Paris. Centuries later, with the discovery of cave 4 of the Dead Sea Scrolls, seven fragmentary copies of the Aramaic text were discovered in the Qumran cave 11 and have been carefully hidden by the protectorate ever since.”
Counselor Azarov raises his eyebrow.
“Now, these scrolls talk about the Nun Resh ‘Ayin, Those Who Watch,” Crown grows even more excited as he progresses with the story. “They deal with the nature and deeds of the Fallen Angels.”
“Angels?” Tinibu retorts skeptically, “as in biblical Angels?”. He walks up and down, mumbling to himself again. “This is nana-banana. Angels … who believes in angels? There’s no formula to prove them.”
Crown’s avatar straightens, “The church condemned the scrolls as heresy,” he amends seemingly in agreement with Tinibu’s challenge, “and the rabbis denied its credence. In the second century, a rabbi even cursed any who believed in them”.
Counselor Azarov interrupts impatiently, “What relevance does have any of this? We are facing aliens Professor, not angels”.
“With all due respect, relevance is based on perception, Counselor,” Crown defends himself wide-eyed with the thrill of such intrigue. “Both aliens and angels have origins beyond the Earth’s atmosphere, so perhaps the scrolls of Enoch just endowed the extra-terrestrials waiting at our gates with a different name.” He looks into the round and continues. “What the Hebrews called Nun Resh ‘Ayin, the Greeks translated into ‘Gigantes’, and today we call them ‘Watchers’. No matter how we turn and twist the history of supernatural beings, they are all extraterrestrial in nature and have been here long before us, shaping our evolution and the history of mankind to their needs. What we call ‘our planet’ has never been ours to start with. Believing otherwise would be simply ignorant and foolish.”