by Alten-Steve
‘Oh, God, yes!’
‘We hate God, don’t we, Quenton?’ She touches herself again. ‘Say it!’
‘We … hate God.’
‘Again!’
‘We hate God!’
Lilith squats over her delirious guardian. ‘Keep your hands at your sides. Don’t attempt to touch me, don’t even move a muscle. I will touch you.’
‘Of course, Succubus, anything you want!’
A child’s face appears at the church door.
‘Go away, Brandy, we don’t need you anymore. The Succubus needs no one!’
The delusion fades into the night.
‘Go away? Who are you speaking to, Succubus?’
‘Shut up, fool.’ She lowers herself onto Quenton, guiding him inside her.
Quenton closes his eyes, moaning in delight.
Cold, emotionless, feeling nothing, Lilith grinds her pelvis into her guardian as she stares at the crucifix mounted behind the pulpit.
Are you watching me, Jesus? Can you hear me, Jacob? Are you two assholes enjoying what you’ve created?
Longboat Key, Florida
Jacob swoons in his trance, his mind ignoring Lilith’s haunting cry as he focuses upon his father’s words. I’m listening, Father. What did the drone find?
Something immense, an artificially created platform hovering twelve hundred feet above the volcanic terrain … so vast it blotted out the alien sky for thousands of square miles. Protruding from the underside of this monstrous structure were countless rows of silo-sized coiled iron objects, hanging down like a crop of metallic stalactites. The drone’s sensor readings warned us of the presence of an intense magnetic field emanating from these million-strong objects. Had our UAV crossed into the field, it would not have survived the scrambling of its electronics.
We instructed the drone to fly higher, hoping to glimpse a topside view of this incredible antigravitational platform. What we saw, Jacob … my thoughts, mere words—they simply do no justice.
Situated atop this Texas-sized floating structure were copper-tinted domes—thousands of them—each roof ten times the girth of the old New Orleans Superdome, yet all interconnecting, like the bottom of a carton of eggs.
As we watched, a section of one of the domes retracted, allowing our drone to enter. Inside was a city, the scope of which could only be conceived in fantasy.
Imagine Manhattan, only one hundred thousand years in the future, the entire island raised in the sky and encapsulated. Imagine majestic silicon dwellings—so tall they would have dwarfed Chicago’s Sears Tower. Imagine interconnecting walkways and levitating pavilions—all woven into the dazzling skyline like latticework, and lush, tropical gardens and azure lagoons. There were rivers and twisting brooks, and cascading waterfalls, and farther along the outskirts, what appeared to be floating agricultural pods.
It was Shangri-La and Eden rolled into one, a beehive of intellect that, on an evolutionary scale, dwarfed us on a scale that we dwarfed the Neanderthals.
The technology required to build this domain was simply too overwhelming to conceive, and yet … it was deserted, not a single sign of life.
Who had built this magnificent floating habitat? Why had they abandoned it? Were they beings like us? Would they return?
We must have felt like the first Spanish explorers who happened upon Chichén Itzá after the Mayans deserted the city.
With us, however, these questions were quickly forgotten after the drone’s atmospheric readings detected air within the domed city. Higher in oxygen content than Earth’s, void of all our chemical pollutants, it was nevertheless quite breathable.
To our dying community, we had discovered an oasis, delivered by God Himself, and we were determined to occupy it.
First, of course, we had to get there.
The structure’s closest border was 422 miles southeast of our crash site. Since the existence of the planet’s nocturnal insects made traveling by foot out of the question, our only hope was to repair as many of our damaged spaceships for a limited flight before our air and water supplies ran out.
Hope. How long had it been since any of us dared utter the word?
It took us ninety-six days to make three of our twelve shuttles operable enough for a vertical takeoff and restricted flight plan. During that time, we continued sending drones into the city, establishing maps, identifying key landmarks, puzzling over a myriad of dwellings.
Never did we come across a life-form.
The day of our departure finally arrived. Tossing out all personal luggage and nonessential items, we crammed our 572 survivors on board the three ships and flew to the Promised Land.
For twenty minutes, our vessel pitched wildly in the dense atmosphere, bringing nausea to all but our most seasoned astronauts. And then we passed over the copper domes and entered the alien domain.
What an astounding site.
As Bill Raby—I felt reborn … invigorated, excited to be alive.
If only I had known what lay ahead …
18
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned …
NOVEMBER 4, 2027: BELLE GLADE, FLORIDA
For fourteen years Lilith Robinson had been a victim, her life a constant struggle to maintain a degree of sanity in an insane environment. Jacob had been her rudder, her strength in a stormy sea.
And now he had abandoned her.
When the Reverend Morehead accused his granddaughter of being a Succubus, he unwittingly supplied Lilith with a new compass—a persona her schizophrenia could mold like clay.
The Succubus was not a victim. The Succubus was powerful.
For the first time in her life, Lilith’s miserable existence was beginning to make sense. While God and His followers had shunned her, Lucifer had reached out to protect her. Lucifer had plans for her future, and although she had no idea what those plans were, she felt confident that her new companion, Don Rafelo, would guide her down the dark path to her destiny.
Lilith enters her uncle’s hotel room, tossing her book bag on the floor.
Don Rafelo is lying on one of the double beds, naked beneath a silk robe.
‘Everyone at school is talking about the missing boys.’
‘Have they questioned you?’
‘The police asked me if I’d seen them. I told them I kicked the basketball into the bushes and ran home.’
‘Good.’
‘When do we leave for Mexico?’
‘Soon. Are you familiar with the Dia de los Muertos, the Day of the Dead?’
‘I read something about it in school once.’
‘La Muerte—Death—is a fixture in Mexican society. During the first days of each November, the spirits of the dead pay a holiday visit home. Death has always held a special place in our ancient rituals. Among the Aztecs, it was considered a blessing to die in childbirth, in battle, or in human sacrifice, all of which assured the victim a desirable destination in the afterlife. Are you afraid to die, Lilith?’
‘There are worse things than death. I want to know more about the Succubus.’
‘The Succubus is your alter ego. You are the reincarnation of Lilith, the Demon Queen—Queen of the Succubi. You were originally created by God to be a subservient wife to Adam. Born from filth but independent of will, you refused to be anything but equal. When Adam became aroused you refused his sexual advances and fled Eden on the wind to pursue erotica with God’s fallen angels. By the Red Sea you spawned a family of demons called the Lilim. Three of God’s angels attempted to force you to return to Eden, but you refused. As punishment, the angels butchered your children.’
‘What did I do?’
‘You swore revenge. Yahweh’s angels were able to protect the mothers and their children from you, but not the men. And so you seduced them while they slept, precipitating nocturnal emissions. The Talmud warned men not to sleep in a house as the sole occupant for fear of your presence. When you are reborn, you will possess the ability to control the will of men and deplete their life
force.’
‘How shall I be reborn?’
‘Not far from the village of Bolonchen is a cavern, part of an underground network of passages known as Grutas de Xtacumbilxunaan, the Caves of the Hidden Woman.’
‘I read about this place in your papers. What’s inside the cave?’
‘Immense power … a power that will ignite your bloodline and give you the gift of sight. But be warned: If you are not strong, the energy will cause you to go insane.’
Lilith stares hard at the old man. ‘Quenton tells me my mother was insane.’
‘Or perhaps he drove her to insanity? It matters not. You are stronger than she ever was, and your master, Lucifer, will protect you.’
‘Quenton preached that God would protect me if I accepted Him into my life.’
‘Who can accept such a vengeful God into their heart? A God who coexists with death camps, who infects our species with disease, who is worshiped as being all-powerful yet somehow remains indifferent throughout our suffering? Did God help you when Quenton was abusing you?’
‘No.’
‘We of the left-hand path refuse to grovel before deities of crosses in hopes of gaining favor with such a God. Instead, we choose to rise above the ignorant fray and stare into His eyes. We revel in our humanity and take full responsibility for our actions. We seek out Lucifer, not to worship him, but to work side by side with him and his demons. God may have given us our sexual organs, but it was Lucifer who made us aware of them. He allowed us to see, to explore, to indulge our most carnal instincts so that we could flourish.’
‘And what of good and evil?’
‘A useless concept, taught by self-serving priests—hypocrites—like your Quenton, who seek to gain earthly pleasures by invoking God’s name to create fear. If to do good is to serve God, then it is a waste of time. Evil is the path to power. We of the left-hand path refuse to live in fear. We feel love and compassion because we are human, but we follow a dark path, one that harbors a hidden force in nature, leading us into a world most men refuse to understand.’
‘Quenton never loved me. Jacob loved me, but his mother and that old woman refused to allow us to be together.’
‘Old woman? Tell me about this old woman.’
Longboat Key, Florida 3:12 p.m.
The Boeing Canard Dragonfly, with its sleek hull, rotor wing, and fixed forward and aft stabilizers, is a cross between an airplane and helicopter. While in ‘helicopter mode’ the aircraft is capable of vertical takeoffs, hovering, and landing. In ‘airplane mode’ the rotor wing locks into a stationary position and its jet engines kick in, propelling the craft at cruising speeds.
Dominique greets Ennis Chaney as he steps down from the airship, his dour expression speaking volumes.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Inside.’ The former president leads her inside the main house. ‘Sorry. Too many listening devices buzzing around these days.’
‘You look exhausted.’
‘I’m getting old, and there are still too many windmills to fight before I die. Where are the boys?’
‘Manny’s in the weight room, Jake’s meditating. Now talk to me.’
‘GOLDEN FLEECE has lost patience. They want access to the twins, or they’ll close down your compound.’
‘Bastards. Can they do that?’
‘Unfortunately, they do whatever they want. Today, GOLDEN FLEECE is asking. Tomorrow they’ll be telling. These guys don’t take no for an answer.’
‘To hell with them. We’ll leave.’
‘Where will you go? No matter where, eventually they’ll find you.’
‘Shit.’ She sits on the edge of the stone coffee table, pinching tension from her brows. ‘Manny will run. Jake might be into all this MAJESTIC mumbo jumbo, but Manny hates it.’
‘I know.’
‘Did you know Dr. Stechman’s treating him for depression?’
‘He’ll have to deal with it as best he can.’
‘Screw you, Ennis! This is my son’s life we’re talking about.’
‘I’m not happy about this either.’
She grabs her car keys and sandals.
‘Dominique, wait, where are you going?’
‘For a drive. Want to arrest me?’ She exits through the garage, slamming the door behind her.
Chaney hears the SUV hydrogen fuel cell whine to life, its wheels squealing in protest as Dominique accelerates down the driveway.
Let her go, she needs to blow off some steam.
The former president hobbles over to the refrigerator and grabs a bottled water. Changes his mind. Searches the liquor cabinet. Pours himself a shot of whiskey.
‘My mother’s right. Manny can’t take much more of this isolation.’
Chaney looks up as Jacob enters the kitchen. ‘I’m not the one calling the shots, kid. Not anymore.’
Jacob nods. ‘I think it’s time I started calling the shots.’
St. Augustine, Florida
It is dark by the time Dominique parks her car in front of Evelyn Strongin’s home. The drive has done little to ease her frayed nerves. What she needs now is advice.
Dominique walks up the old redbrick path to the entrance. Holds her palm to the security keypad.
Surgically implanted in Dominique’s palm is a microchip identification device, no larger than a grain of rice. Recognizing her ‘key,’ the electronic bolt unlocks.
Dominique enters the home. Sees the turned-over palm plant and magazine rack. Feels her skin tingling. ‘Evelyn?’
Evelyn’s library door is closed. Dominique creeps closer and listens. Hears the gurgling sound. Flexes her right biceps, activating the pain-cannon’s neurological trigger.
Dominique kicks the door open. ‘Evelyn! Oh my God—’
The dead woman’s face is purple, her limp, broken figure swaying from a makeshift noose tied to the overhead ceiling fan.
19
November 2, 2027
Miami, FL. (AP Internet Wire)
Former Secretary of State Pierre Robert Borgia was released today from a federal penitentiary in Miami after serving nearly fifteen years. Once considered a strong Republican candidate for president, Borgia was convicted of conspiracy to commit murder when he ordered the death of Michael Gabriel, the incarcerated mental patient who mysteriously died after helping prevent a nuclear holocaust back in December of 2012. ‘I’m an innocent man who served his country and was wrongly accused,’ Borgia told reporters moments after his release. ‘All I want now is to live out what few days I have in peace.’
NOVEMBER 4, 2027: MABUS MANSION, MANALAPAN, FLORIDA
4:17 p.m.
Pierre Borgia stares at his reflection in the bathroom smart glass. Prison life has trimmed forty pounds from his once stocky physique. His face is noticeably leaner, almost gaunt, his head cleanly shaven to hide the gray. The bandage over his right eye socket is new, the result of a recent inmate attack during his last month in the federal penitentiary.
‘We should get that eye looked at,’ says Lucien Mabus, the teen entering from the bedroom. ‘Once the swelling’s down, we’ll fit you with one of those new prosthetics.’
‘Waste of time and money. My life’s over.’ Borgia turns on the faucet. Washes his face.
‘Don’t say that. My father always said the party needs you.’
‘Where the hell was the party when Chaney had me carted off like a goddam animal? That nigger’s got the UN marching to the beat of his goddam drum. He’s also the one who killed your father.’
The nineteen-year-old nods. ‘Yeah. What’re we gonna do about that?’
‘I have a few ideas. Get dressed, kid, I’ll meet you downstairs.’
Borgia reaches for a sensory toothbrush. Brushes his teeth. On cue, a medical chart appears on the smart-glass mirror directly in front of him.
TEMPERATURE:
98.6
HEART RATE:
118
BLOOD PRESSURE
158/94
CHOLESTEROL
343
ELECTROLYTES
NORMAL
2 CAVITIES PRESENT
GINGIVITIS IN STAGE
2
BLOOD PRESSURE AND CHOLESTEROL ARE HIGH.
ANALYSIS OF SALIVA INDICATES A BLEEDING ULCER. SEEK MEDICAL ATTENTION IMMEDIATELY. HAVE A NICE DAY.
‘Damn know-it-all computers.’ Borgia dries his face, then reexamines the eye patch in the bathroom mirror.
Longboat Key, Florida 4:17 p.m.
Jacob stares wide-eyed into the bathroom’s smart-glass mirror, his reflection dissipating as his mind hitches a ride aboard another person’s wavelength.
Gaunt face.
Shaved head.
Eye patch … covering a wound created twenty-six years ago by his own father.
It’s Borgia … I’m remote-viewing Pierre Borgia!
The session ends as abruptly as it had begun.
Jacob blinks hard at the reflection of his own tan face and snow-white hair.
You’re up to something, Borgia. I can taste your anger … the restlessness of your soul.
Belle Glade, Florida 6:40 p.m.
The Orion Suburban convertible rolls to a stop in front of Quenton’s home, its batteries nearly depleted. Lilith nods good-bye to her uncle, then heads for the front door.
The reverend is waiting for her inside. He is wearing a bathrobe, boxer shorts, and black socks. ‘Why did you steal my car?’
‘A friend needed it. Besides, technically it’s my car now. Did you take care of everything at the bank?’
Quenton holds up the manila envelope. ‘Everything’s here, all signed and sealed, but you don’t get nuthin’, least not until I die.’
‘Give me the papers.’
‘No. The papers go back to my attorney’s office tomorrow morning. As long as you please me, the Last Will and Testament stays unchanged.’ Quenton’s eyes gleam. ‘I want it every night. From now on, you’re my private whore.’