by J A Bouma
He pointed at the screen, the video cycling back through the charred desolation. “This is that. The first trumpet has been blown. This is it. We are living through the end times!”
Ford folded his arms, face flat and stoic. “The worm really has turned then. All official like.”
Nia matched him, saying grimly: “The apocalypse is officially being now.”
Alexander turned to leave. “We need to get back to Father Jim. He’ll know what to do.”
“My God…” Ford suddenly cried out, slumping to his knees.
Alexander turned back, furrowing his brow with confusion. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s…” the man trailed off, swallowing hard and doubling over, placing both hands on his knees and panting for more breath.
Nia leaned in closer for a better look, matching Alexander’s confusion. “I am not under—”
“Springer Mountain,” Ford interrupted, bringing his hands up to his head, face pained and drained of color. “A rising ridge at the northern border of Noramericana that starts the two-thousand-plus mile trek along the Appalachian Trail to Mount Katahdin in north Americana.”
Alexander couldn’t imagine it, but his stomach sank further. He knew what that meant.
Nia scoffed. “Who cares? Why is this being so dread—”
“It’s my homeland!” Ford cried out, face twisted with anguish. “My people. My family…”
And all of it had been obliterated. A third of Solterra, if the prophecies concerning the end of the world were unfolding.
Ford looked to Alexander, moistened eyes pleading for answers. He had very few. But he knew who did.
“Come on. We should go check on Father Jim. He’ll know what to do.”
For Ford, for Ichthus. For Solterra even.
Chapter 12
Germania, Europa.
Martin Zarruq closed his eyes, tipped his head back, and stroked one end of his white handlebar mustache, his heart thudding expectantly in his chest even as his pulse raced into the gilded ceremonial vial resting on the white marble table, the reed protruding from his arm carefully channeling his life force out of his body and into a rising pool of crimson at the bottom. A pleasurable sigh escaped him, both from the exhumation of his life force and at the anticipation rising inside at what it would bring.
He settled into the plush, gilded chair at the glass table and heaved another pleasurable sigh, the vast, bright room of white marble veined with faint gray lining the floor and walls agreeing with another echoing reply. Easing his eyes open, one end of his mouth curled upward at the view of a ceiling vaulted by soaring Corinthian columns edged by gilt lines circling the white pillars like candy canes. High above, crystals clung to the corners and seams of the ceiling like clusters of grapes, a sort of celestial crown molding that refracted the light from the day with rainbow brilliance, although dimming now under the threat of rain.
“Like Heaven…”
He smiled knowingly at the tongue slip.
No, like the Republic of Heaven.
Martin had personally overseen the construction of the hall, patterning it after another that had been destroyed by an ancient enemy over a century ago. The Order of Thaddeus. He sourced the best materials the Universe had to offer, ones that had unfortunately gone by the wayside in ultramodern Solterra, with all of its gleaming glass and polished chrome. He shuddered at the thought, more beholden to the ancient, alchemic metals and stones to festoon his temple. But as brilliant as the gilded columns and refracting crystals were, the real center of attention was the mural of celestial beings locked in arms with recognizable figures peering down at him, witnessing his moment of self-pleasure.
The full range of scenery from across Solterra’s religious landscape was depicted, beginning with the Bible: From the Garden of Eden to Abraham sacrificing Isaac on Mount Moriah, Moses parting the Red Sea to the birth of Jesus, his feeding of the five thousand miracle to his crucifixion. But then it continued on in a way the in-the-know observer would have found confusing, depicting neither Christ’s resurrection nor ascension. Of course Martin had it designed that way, adding still other familiar religious depictions that would have seemed out of place in what one might have assumed was a place of Christian worship. There was Muhammad’s First Revelation, the event described in Islam where the prophet was visited by the angel Jibrīl and revealed to him the beginnings of what would later become the Qur'an. And then another: a familiar depiction of Siddhartha Gautama, Buddha, sitting cross-legged in a crimson sash, one hand raised with enlightenment. All combining into the tapestry of the movement he was building for the Republic to unify the polis into a singular religious affection.
With him as the head, the High Priest.
The Summus Sacerdos, the Greatest Priest.
The air seemed to hum with agreement as his blood continued pouring out, readying him for his offering to the Universe, the man continuing to stroke the mustache end in sync with his heart beating his blood into the sacred vessel. Even the furniture pieces, edged in gold leafing and adding to the sense of brightness, seemed to glow especially bright in the presence of his act of letting.
His tongue began tingling now with anticipation as the ceremonial vial filled, desire welling with a climactic groan within his belly for what would come next, down below in the bowels of Panligo’s sanctum, the climax to his reappearing after having risen from the dead and back into public life.
Alexander must have been overcome with confusion mixed with anger, rage even. After all, he’d fooled the boy just as much as he’d fooled the fool, that man and his Ministerium who had run him out those years ago. The man who was dreadfully stuck in his regressive beliefs, refusing to face the facts that the new ultramodern era required—no, demanded new, progressive answers to the world’s age-old questions. Yet the man refused to do anything about it! Refused to thank him for doing something about it.
Martin tightened his fist, rage swelling at the thought of James Ferraro besting him by excommunicating him from the Ministerium, from Ichthus even. Then he took a breath, relaxing his body again after tensing from what had been a low point in his illustrious career pointing people to the truths embedded deep within the Universe.
No matter. Things have a way of working themselves out; the Universe has a way of course correcting. For which he was eternally grateful. Or at least presently so, given what he was up against.
The man snapped open his eyes, his head feeling suddenly faint. He eyed the gilded vial and startled. The thing was nearly filled to the brim! No wonder he was feeling it, a goodly amount of the crimson liquid having been let from his arm during his absentminded contemplation.
Grasping the slender stem with his thumb and forefinger, Martin pulled the long end from his arm, the centimeter worth stuck inside his vein sliding out easily. Blood seeped from the hole in his arm, but he left it. It also collected at the end of the reed, that quickening stirring again.
He dropped his jaw with lustful hunger and pressed the bloodied end against his tongue. The coppery sensation of old-world pennies sent an instant jolt of orgasmic delight through every nerve ending in his mouth. He sucked at the reed, his life force slowly sapping into his mouth like a straw. His skin rippled with goose pimples at the amplified coppery taste compounded by the salty scent, his head growing dizzy again.
Then he set the slender stem on his desk. Mustn’t get too greedy. Soon he would have his fill, and so would the others.
A rapping against the door of polished chrome at the far end of the vast room of white marble stole his attention, cutting off his moment of secret pleasure.
Martin carefully sealed the gilded vial with a cork and set it aside, then stood and called out for the intruder to enter. The door slid open. In strode Dominic Weiss and Apollos Nicolai, the men who he was leaning on to unfold his grand plans for Panligo.
For Ichthus…
“Come along, then,” he said, motioning them toward the far end.
He saunte
red over to the grouping of chairs, his crimson silk robe swishing and bare feet slapping against the cold, hard marble with each step. He met the men at the same cluster of couches at one end that he and Lucius Severus had sat at days ago when he stopped by to assess progress on bringing the Republic’s plans to fruition.
He only hoped these men would please him as much as he tried to please the Patron with the designs of his own plans for the future. Failure was not an option.
“Care for a drink?” he asked, stopping at a long mahogany table, bottles of wine and liquor arrayed on top.
“Yes, Cardinal—”
His head snapped toward the sound of his previous title. The one he’d held before his demise in the Ministerium.
It was Apollos, eyes wide and searching for help from Dominic.
The man gave a curt smile and offered a short bow. Weiss said, “Yes, Sacradi, that would be splendid. Whatever you are imbibing should suit us, isn’t that right?”
“Ye—yes, Sacradi,” Apollos stammered. “Whatever you are imbibing should suit us.”
Martin frowned, annoyed already at the intrusion before the ceremony, but doubly so after the insult.
He returned to the table and opened a bottle of Barlo bottled in 2085. A good year. The year Alexander was born, actually. It was also the year he was ordained into ministry with the Church. Seemed like an apropos offering, considering the consecration that would soon take place. Pouring three glasses, he joined the men who were seated on a cream couch rimed in gilt.
Passing out the two glasses, he raised his own. “Ad bonum vitae!”
“To the good life, indeed,” Dominic said, raising his glass before taking a sip. Apollos did the same.
“Now, please tell me you come bearing good tidings of great joy.”
He grinned, glancing at Apollos. “We do. The most excellent tidings, actually.”
Surprised, Martin leaned back and took hold of one end of his mustache. “Do tell.”
“Our engineers believe they finally have a working prototype that can be used.”
He threw back a swig of wine and drilled him with irritation. “Believe?”
Dominic threw back a swig of his own, matching his stare. “You have to understand, the device left behind in the Ministerium rubble was only half finished. We wouldn’t have even known what to do with it had it not been for the agent left behind in that jail cell of theirs.”
“That Tara Rodriguez woman?”
“That’s right. She proved to be quite useful in exposing Ichthus’s various side projects.”
“Side projects?” Martin exclaimed, throwing back another mouthful. “Project 65 seems to be much more than a side project!”
“With your son at the center of it all…” Apollos said from the side, filling his own mouth with wine after seemingly understanding his slip.
“Yes, well, be that as it may, we need our weapon operational before the day is out, am I clear? The Patron is eager to unfold this second phase of the Purge, and I assured him all would be ready soon.”
“We’re already readying the...weapon, as you put it, for use very soon.”
Martin sat forward with interest. “Really?”
“Yes, sir,” Apollos said with a knowing grin. “We are being more than ready to come through for you and the Patron.”
One end of his mouth curled upward at that German accent and those perfectly coiffed locks of his. He could see why Dominic fancied the young man.
A chime rang out on the other side of the hall from near his glass desk, its echo clear as the bell inside that vintage wooden Howard Miller grandfather clock from pre-Reckoning. It was a bit ironic he cherished such antique treasures, given his penchant for progressing his ancient faith forward into ultramodern realms. Be that as it may, he understood some things were worth holding onto, even from the past.
Dominic turned toward the chime. “It sounds like the hour of your christening is nigh.”
Martin downed the glass and set it on a table, then stood; the others joined him. “It is. When do you plan to use the weapon?”
“A day, maybe two more if we can finalize the—”
“I don’t need to know the details. Just get it done. We need the minority voice of reason tucked in the Church’s past to rise above those in power who shaped Ichthus’s doctrines. Notify me the minute you’re back with the results.”
“Yes, Sacradi. Although, I imagine you’ll know sooner than us if all goes according to plan…”
He nodded, then waved them off, bidding them goodbye.
The men left, and Martin sauntered back for the gilded vial. He grasped it with both hands, a bloody fingerprint left behind on the large cork plugging the mouth shining crimson.
The hour is night, indeed…
Rumbling thunder in the distance brought him back to the moment, desire beginning to churn in his belly from the weight and pleasure of what was to come. He took the vial and went to a panel on a blank wall that disguised what was below. Pressing his hand against the device, it pulsed blue before flashing green. The wall shuddered before revealing a stairwell that stretched downward.
On toward destiny.
The floor felt cold under Martin’s bare feet as he slowly descended the stone stairway of his sanctum, earth and stone, mold and must mixing with delight. He had always had a certain fascination with the elemental, the earthen, believing as his Alkebulanan ancestors did that there was a life force that permeated all things, binding them together in divinity.
That One is all, and all is One.
He brought that principle of universal divinity to bear on Panligo, leveraging the insights of the Solterran faiths that expressed that universal force, binding them together—to bind together the world faiths.
Only one thing was standing in the way: the Christian claim that Jesus himself was God. Was divine, the Absolute Principle that stood above all others.
Still the largest religion in the world, Christianity and its singular claims posed a unique problem for the Republic, for him even as the new Pope of Panligo. Claims he intimately understood, having been at one point a high-profile cardinal in the Church.
Luckily for him, he would deal with both in one swift blow.
Thunder rumbled as Martin continued his descent, LED lights along the base of the stairwell wall lighting his way to the chamber below. The wind howled now as a mixture of rain and heavy, wet snow beat against the thick, interlocking stones of the ancient castle, a violent reflection of the nature of what was about to take place below the legendary, rebuilt heart of Panligo, one that had been beaten for centuries.
Originally built in the seventeenth century, it later became the central headquarters of the German SS and central command for Heinrich Himmler. Though it had become a sort of museum and youth hostel post-WWII, the estate had been acquired by a former Grand Master of Nous over a century ago—before his unfortunate demise and much of the headquarters were destroyed by a rival that eventually became an ally.
The stuff of legends that man was, Rudolph Borg, the one who had reactivated the enemy of the Church stretching back to its founding, transforming the castle and the alt-spiritual Nous organization into his own needs: a nerve center of spiritual enlightenment and war. Bless the Universe he had the foresight to train his successor in the ways of Nous, ironically a twin to a Master of the Order of Thaddeus. What they preserved for decades through the past century paved the way for a new, rising, finalizing force that would finally eliminate the Christians, the Church.
The Christ, even!
Martin continued his descent, the red silk robe swishing with every step. Reaching the bottom, he kept on toward the chamber, but he stopped when he reached a statue.
Bird-Man Thoth, the ancient Egyptian god of wisdom. Of revelation. Of gnostikos, the divine knowledge. It was a perfect replica of the colossal statue artifact discovered near the mortuary temple of Amenhotep III in Luxor a decade ago, surviving the original destruction of the Nous compound. Uni
verse only knows how, but it stood as a testament to the enduring legacy of the entity that had made Panligo possible. Measuring eleven-and-half feet tall and made of pure, red granite culled from ancient quarries in Egypt, the statue stood towering over Martin, reminding him of his ancient calling and setting his face like flint against Ichthus.
He focused his attention on the ancient face, the ibis head peering down at him with a mask of pure gold, with a black onyx beak, flanked by indigo ribbons, and the Atef crown of white and red feathers stretching upward. It was truly a testimony to the enduring legacy of the ancient cult.
Thoth’s roles in Egyptian mythology were varied. The god served as a mediating power between good and evil, as a scribe of the gods, and weighed the lives of the dead. The ancient Egyptians regarded Thoth as One, self-begotten and self-produced, like the Übermensch of his own ancient Germanic ancestors. He was the master of both natural and divine law, establishing the heavens and the earth and everything in them, directing the motions of the heavenly bodies and affairs of men. The Egyptians credited him as the author of all works of science and religion, philosophy and magic. His power was unlimited and unrivaled by all other gods. The ancients even declared him the inventor of astronomy and astrology; mathematics and geometry; medicine and botany; theology and civilized government; and the alphabet, reading and writing. He was the true author of every work of every branch of knowledge.
Human and divine.
“‘You know all that is hidden under the heavenly vault,’” Martin intoned, bowing his head reverently before the stone effigy as he quoted from the mystical sayings surrounding the god. “‘Now, that which has been hidden shall be revealed.’ And it shall be mine,” he finished, clenching his fist with resolve.