“So, if you were on that panel, would you have insisted that if we can’t protect all the clones, then we shouldn’t protect any?”
“Not necessarily, but I would never grant permission for one to die in order to save another, for permitting murder is to sin against God. The Apostle Paul asks in the book of Romans, ‘Should we do evil that good may come?’ Then he answers his own question: ‘God forbid!’ See, God is holy, and cannot bless evil. When you try to regulate the evil for compassion’s sake, hoping to save one, yet permitting the murder of some in your regulations, you become an accomplice in the very crime you hope to prevent. If you get your hands stained with innocent blood, you sacrifice God’s blessing and come under God’s wrath, your motive to ‘save the one’ notwithstanding.”
After a moment’s reflection, I respond, “With that purist ideology, how could you ever succeed in any political aim? Without compromise, how can you get anything done?”
She smiles. “Compromising the inessentials in deference to others—that’s just loving your neighbor as you love yourself. But to compromise God’s law is to abandon faith in Him. Faith in God—that’s the victory that overcomes the world, Ray, not disbelief. Not abandoning the Word of God, sheathing the sword of the Spirit. Ray, if God be for us, who can be against us? Thanks be to God who always causes us to triumph in Christ. Through God we shall do valiantly, for it is He that shall tread down our enemies.”
She studies me briefly, and then turns back to the road. “You see, Ray, God always tests our faith to see if we will obey Him when it is inconvenient, when the odds are stacked against us. Will we be faithful when it looks like God’s ways are not best, that His will is an utter impossibility? Or will we resort to carnal, godless remedies when it looks like they are more plausible alternatives than compliance to God’s will and ways? ‘Cursed is the man whose strength is in the arm of the flesh.’” She glances at me. “That’s another Bible verse. God commands obedience, not success. In His eyes, obedience is success, even if we die martyrs never seeing our dreams fulfilled. If His will looks like it leads to a cross with your name on it, will you give in to the temptation to circumvent the cross in hopes of an easier, alternative route to the resurrection? Or will you take up your cross and follow Jesus?”
43
THE WALK FROM THE PARKING lot into the Georgia statehouse in downtown Atlanta is surreal. The sky is blue, as usual, but it is as if I have never seen the color before. The firmament is clear of clouds, the breeze is cool and light and perfectly balances the sting of the hot Georgia sun just peeking over the horizon. I don’t think there has ever been a more beautiful day in the history of the world! I feel so refreshed, so light and clean. Even my aches and my facial weakness are perfect in light of how much worse it could be, especially given that I’m living on borrowed time. Following my sister on the busy sidewalk, I don’t ever remember being so happy. I whisper thanksgiving to God for not giving up on me, and for the safety of my family. I don’t know what the future holds, but I have full confidence that if it includes suffering to right the wrongs for which I am responsible, God will give me the strength to endure it with cheerfulness.
As soon as I walk into the Statehouse for the 8 a.m. meeting, even before I line up behind Tamara to go through the security detector, two tall, lean, plain-clothed men just inside the door grab me by my shirt and thrust me forcefully against the wall. They inadvertently bump into my sister and knock her down in the process.
So much for my usefulness to the resistance.
I expect to be told that I am under arrest for some federal crime, but I am given no explanation for their rough treatment of me, making me wonder if these men are private citizens. As soon as Tamara rises to protest, one of them stiff-arms her and she falls again to the ground again with a painful grunt.
“Be careful!” I object. “You hurt my—”
Before I can get “sister” out of my mouth, one of them pressed my face against the wall, putting his thumb deep into my cheek until it is jammed between my jaws, forcing me silent.
A Statehouse security guard sees the commotion and intervenes, notifying superiors through a nano communication device. “I have a violent unprovoked assault of two men against one at the east entrance.” He quickly approaches. “Get your hands off him!”
The two agents handcuffing me look at the security guard, whose hand rests on his holstered handgun.
“We are federal agents arresting a fugitive.”
Three more security guards surround me and the two plain-clothed federal agents. One of the security guards taps his nanophone. “They claim they are two federal agents, arresting Dr. Raymond Verity.” He apparently recognizes me. “We’re not going to let them take you, Dr. Verity.”
Two of the security guards get between me and the door, trying to block the exit.
The federal agents keep glancing anxiously through the glass door, as if expecting back-up to assist them at any moment. One of the security guards hits a code on the panel by the sliding glass doors to prevent them from opening from the outside. The two agents push me along the wall toward the exit, their hands resting on what I suppose are their weapons in the small of their back.
One of the agents unfolds a badge toward the nearest security guard. “Federal law, federal jurisdiction. Back off!”
The agent nearest the glass doors points at the security guard by the doors. “Open that door, now!”
“Don’t let them take him!” Tamara squeals. “Raymond Verity is under an invitation from Governor Jeffries, and has been promised safe passage, along with the rest of Alabama Governor Maurice Whetley’s entourage. Those federal agents aren’t following the law!”
Someone must have given an order to all of the security guards simultaneously through their communication devices. All four immediately unholster their Tasers and shoot the two federal agents. They both seize under the voltage. One of the federal agents manages to unholster his weapon before he loses control of his body from the electricity, and his black handgun slides across the floor until a security guard stops it with his foot. The agents fall hard to the ground, grunting.
Outside, two black-clothed agents bang against the sliding glass doors, shouting threats for them to be opened. They attempt to breach the locked glass doors through a panel on the wall outside. Tod Farrell steps around the security guards and walks toward me, twitching his pepper gray mustache to the left with tic-like constancy. “I’ll take him.”
The chief of security gives him an affirming nod as two other security guards begin to frisk the stunned federal agents and bind their hands. Several security guards come and stand between the glass doors and me, facing the frantic federal agents fiddling with the panel outside.
A black SUV parks on the curb behind them and several more agents step out, decked out in SWAT gear, carrying what appear to be short-barreled automatic weapons with long ammo clips. As one agent hooks a laptop up to the panel outside the door, others alternatively bang the glass and try to pry it open.
Farrell fidgets in the pockets of the guards for the keys to my cuffs. “You”—he turns to the nearest guard—“keep these agents locked away and out of sight. Do not let them speak to a lawyer or anybody else. Got that?”
“Get him out of here,” Tamara urges Farrell.
“I can’t believe I just zapped a federal agent!” a security guard exclaims.
“Are we gonna get in trouble if we do this?” one of them inquired of Farrell.
“In this Statehouse, with this Governor and this Speaker of the House, I suspect you’re gonna get in trouble if you don’t.” Farrell uncuffs me.
Tamara is halfway down the hall toward the elevator. She waves Farrell toward her as he whisks me out of the foyer. “Come on!”
Farrell puts his hand on my shoulder and leads me to the elevator. Over his shoulder, he hollers at the chief of security, “Full alert at all entrances and exits. Resist them with force.”
“Yes, sir.” He glances
at the glass. “Backup’s a minute out . . . ”
“Why don’t you stop and get a coffee on your way?” Tamara goads Farrell.
Farrell rolls his eyes to her sarcasm, but picks up his pace nonetheless.
“The feds are giving up, it looks like,” the chief of security shouts down the hall. “Driving off.”
“Good.” Farrell leads me into the elevator.
“They are not giving up!” Tamara sticks her head out of the elevator and shouts down the hall. “They have contingency plans and they will stop at nothing to shut up Raymond Verity and shut down state opposition.”
As we head up to the seventh floor, I put a hand on Farrell’s shoulder until we make eye contact.
“You can’t save me from them. Let them take me, and save yourself the hassle of a federal warrant, or a deadly raid—”
Tamara steps forward and taps her index finger right in the middle of my forehead. “Don’t you know you’re going to walk on water, Raymond Verity? Stop believing the ten false spies!”
Walk on water? Ten spies? What in the world is that supposed to mean? Her biblical metaphors are so frequent and fluent, I’ve got to start reading the Bible just so I can understand what she’s saying.
“Okay?” I respond, shirking from her pointy fingernail.
She grins and steps back. “Keep your eyes fixed on the water-walker, little brother.” She turns to Farrell. “You too, Tod. No fingers in the wind. Don’t fear what man shall do to you.”
He reluctantly gives her a short nod and bites his lip.
What has my sister become? Some kind of spiritual chaplain for Jesus freaks accused of treason? I rub the spot on my forehead, which I imagine has her fingernail’s indentation in it.
“I wasn’t fearing anything,” Farrell finally responds.
“I saw that look on your face. Your little mustache was just a jitterin’.” The elevator dings and she takes a step toward the door. “It was fear. Our faith puts God on the spot, and gives Him a chance to show Himself strong.”
Tamara leads us out of the elevator and stops, as if she cannot make up her mind which way to turn. Farrell and I come to a halt behind her.
“You lead.” Her aged voice is unbending.
Farrell grunts approvingly, glad to be back in the driver’s seat. “Sure. But my mustache wasn’t jitterin’.”
She grins and keeps silent, content to let him have the last word.
That’s Tamara—always leading the charge through the storm of fiery arrows, and when all is safe, pausing to follow the man she lets get in front of her. She’s always trying to prod on the men around her to greatness, with a sharp dagger poking them in the rear if they begin to reek of cowardice. Yet she is always careful to give the man the credit for the mission accomplished. No wonder she never married—too few men rose sufficiently above mediocrity to be a good candidate for her.
We’re five minutes late for the meeting that is taking place around a long oval table. The Alabama, Mississippi, and Georgia representatives are very generous in welcoming me, but the leaders of the other four states appear nervous about the morning’s violence, and act like they are about to abandon ship before it even leaves the dock.
Governor Whetley gives me a crushing hug. “Can’t wait to hear about your change of heart.” His exaggerated features have all the caricature of the African race: skin as black as night, wide nose, strong jaw, full, wide lips, and the frame of a professional athlete. He holds onto the hug longer than is customary, and afterwards looks me in the eyeballs, way inside my personal space. There’s something I really love about his wide, unashamed smile.
The Alabama A.G., Shane Mease, is behind him with a firm handshake. “Good to finally see you.”
His red hair is even more fiery in person. His strong handshake strangely doesn’t seem compatible with his whiny voice and protuberant belly on his otherwise thin frame.
Phil Stephens, Tamara’s lanky right-hand-man and fellow Personhood leader, goes out of his way to greet me kindly, but he keeps silent as Tod Farrell briefly informs those gathered of the details of the feds’ attempt to extract me from the premises.
Farrell expresses firm confidence in the competence of Governor Jeffries’ security team covering the roof, and all entrances and exits, but that does not appear to put the most anxious of them at ease.
Whetley leans toward me and quietly asks if my facial asymmetry is from an injury sustained during their arrest. “No,” I whisper. “It’s unrelated.”
The Georgia Governor, a full-featured retired farmer named Vince Jeffries, loudly orders a subordinate to contact the Sheriff’s office and the police department, and have them keep squads around the building in case any federal forces arrive to retrieve their men or try to apprehend me. His southern drawl is so thick I initially suspect he is mocking the accent.
“Any retaliation for our justified resistance,” Governor Jeffries confidently announces, “will be met with vigorous defensive force.”
He orders a man in military garb beside him to position Georgia Guard forces in four fully-armed hovercrafts around the block. The hovercrafts are an immense improvement over the antique Humvees, as they are not susceptible to IEDs, can travel over ditches and even water as easily as land, have stealth technology and can sneak up on enemies. He orders two armed, stealth Guard copters to their position, one to monitor the scans of the vicinity from the roof and the other to maintain flight between them and the nearest military base. Four Guard jets were also ordered to fly the capital in a grid pattern.
“And Farrell, notify me immediately if the feds try anything.”
“Yes, sir.” Farrell taps his nano and walks to stand beside the door, whispering quietly to his security team leaders.
Governor Jeffries faces those surrounding the table, pointing north. “They are the lawless criminals in this confrontation.” He points at the Florida governor, a short Hispanic man with a goatee who appears to be packing up his briefcase. “Put that down, Felipe! Dr. Verity did nothing but save a little girl from a gruesome death, and the feds want to arrest him for it? Not on my watch! Georgia will be governed by law, not the federal government’s godless tyranny.”
“That’s exactly the kind of leadership the moment requires,” Tamara mumbles, adding a vigorous “Amen” from where she sits behind Phil Stephens, her colleague in the Alabama Personhood organization.
It’s beginning to sink in just how much is at stake, and how much these leaders are risking to meet with me here.
Soon, a refreshing calm settles upon the room. Even the Florida governor appears at ease. I take my seat between the Alabama Attorney General Shane Mease, and the ageless Alabama Supreme Court Justice Ron Moore, a brilliant man who once got kicked off the bench for refusing to cease acknowledging God in the course of his judicial duties, but who ran again for office years later and amazingly re-took his seat.
I am thrilled to be able to tell them of my conversion in the trunk of that sedan. They are all very warm and welcoming toward me.
“Has the dementia affected you at all?” Governor Jeffries asks.
Presuming him to be referring to a stroke-related loss of neurologic function associated with my facial droop, I point to the left side of my face. “My stroke hasn’t affected my intellectual capacity at all.”
“Was it caused by the same thing that’s causing the dementia?” he asks.
“Excuse me?”
They all just stare at me for a moment. “Is what caused your facial droop the same thing that is causing dementia in the New Body clients?”
“What dementia? What are you talking about?”
“You haven’t heard?”
I shrug, having no idea what he’s talking about.
Phil Stephens turns to Governor Whetley. “He doesn’t know.”
Governor Jeffries taps a button on his laptop and his desktop is projected onto the white wall behind him. It is a news story. The top headline reads, “New Bodies, Disabled Minds: Viral
Vectors Causing Dementia.”
“In everyone who’s undergone a cerebral-ocular transfer?”
Phil Stephens responds, “According to the CDC and WHO officials quoted in this widely published news report, about half of those who had their brain transplanted into a murdered cloned person are coming down with rapid-onset dementia.”
By the look on Tamara’s face, this must be the first time she has heard about this as well. “Oh, Ray,” she utters under her breath, “I pray you aren’t affected.”
“It must be the viral vectors.” I recall the increasing number of WHO, FDA, and CDC scientists entering the private entrance of the Center the last time I was there, and how they were unwilling to tell me the reason for their increased presence. This must have been the reason. “We use viruses to modify the donor’s genome, to remove deleterious genes and mutations, like cancer genes, and to improve strength and intelligence and coveted physical characteristics. We thought we eliminated their pathogenicity. Apparently the trace viral elements must have an effect on the unaltered brains of the clients.”
Governor Whetley responds, “It sounds like you understand it better than even the author of the article does.”
“Of course.” My eyes are still transfixed on the article. “I received a Nobel Prize for the technology.”
“It also sounds like you have not come down with the rapid-onset dementia,” Mease adds, provoking a nervous laugh among the others.
“This is the Tower of Babel all over again,” Tamara comments, grief evident in her tone.
“Excuse me?” An Alabama cabinet member with a confused look on her face, asks, “Say again?”
“When mankind had one language and one government,” Tamara explains, “they were building a tower they intended to reach to heaven. Perhaps they wanted to protect themselves if there ever was another flood, like what happened when God judged the world in Noah’s lifetime. When the tower was under construction, God said that if He did not intervene, then nothing would be impossible for them. So He confused their language. They naturally separated into language groups and the project came screeching to a halt.”
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