The Lawless One and the End of Time

by Lonnie Pacelli

  At cyberintel command center in Rome, Paul, Caleb and Natalizio watched their screens, seeing something very different than Popov and his lieutenants. The center screen showed the actual messages that cyberintel was transmitting to satellite six, with the coordinates locked on to Volgograd. The right-hand screen showed what was being transmitted to Zhitkur, the fake coordinates locked on the ethnarchy government building. Paul smiled as he looked at the two screens, “That fat bastard Popov is probably blowing smoke rings right now,” Paul said to Natalizio. “He’s in for the scare of his life.”

  Paul decided to have a bit more fun with Popov. “Set the strike for five past eight,” he ordered. Paul wanted them to sweat this out a bit more, by having the strike occur five minutes later than they commanded.

  Back in Zhitkur’s command center, Popov stood with Alexeev watching the screen in the command center countdown to eight o’clock. On another screen was a satellite picture of the ethnarchy building. He wanted to watch it blow.

  Ten. Nine. Eight. Popov watched the countdown on one screen, then the ethnarchy building on the other screen.

  Five. Four. Three. His eyes shifted between the two screens.

  Two. One. Zero. Then silence.

  And the ethnarchy building was still there.

  “What happened?” Popov asked.

  “I don’t know, Mr. Chairperson,” Alexeev said.

  The activity in the room grew frantic, with commands being sent to satellite six, only to get the phony COMM ACCEPTED messages.

  “Try another satellite.” Alexeev said. He looked over at Popov, who had chewed the end off his cigar in frustration.

  “Satellite four in position, General,” Alexeev’s operations commander said.

  “Execute!” Alexeev said.

  The operations commander sent the command to execute, receiving the COMM ACCEPTED confirmation. The ethnarchy government building stood just as it always had on the beautiful sunny day in Rome.

  Back at cyberintel command center in Rome, Paul laughed out loud as he watched the commands from Zhitkur on the right-hand screen. “They switched to satellite four!” Paul said, not even trying to contain his glee. “He’s probably chewed through his cigar by now!” Paul knew Popov well enough to know that this would be eating him alive. And that Popov would probably execute someone over this.

  Paul watched the countdown to the strike on Volgograd, from a satellite picture on the far-left screen. The real commands to satellite six were on the center screen, with the bogus Zhitkur commands on the right. He watched the frantic scrolling of commands on the right screen as Alexeev tried to figure out why the strike was unsuccessful. Paul’s black eyes shifted to the center screen where he watched the countdown.

  Fourteen. Thirteen. Twelve. He looked at the satellite picture of the unsuspecting Volgograd, its citizens having no idea they were going to die in the next seconds.

  Seven. Six. Five. Paul’s eyes shifted to the still-frantic command scrolling on the right screen.

  Two. One. Zero. Paul looked to the left screen and saw a bright flash then a plume of dust and smoke engulf the city. Natalizio and Caleb watched the screen where the now decimated Volgograd once stood, acknowledging the military success, but at the same time saddened by the loss of innocent lives. Paul was giddy with excitement as Volgograd descended to rubble. “Yes!” Paul yelled as he left the command center. He ran back to his office at the still-standing government building, closed the door, made an espresso, and watched the recording of Volgograd being blown up over and over again.

  Ten minutes after the failed attack on the ethnarchy government building, Popov got a call that Volgograd had been struck. He threw the phone to the ground.

  “What?” Alexeev asked.

  “Volgograd, you hit Volgograd, you idiot!”

  Alexeev couldn’t believe it. All the commands were accepted, he had verification from the satellites, the coordinates were locked. Hitting Volgograd just didn’t make sense.

  “Find out what happened!” Popov stormed out of the command center back to his office in Zhitkur. As he got to his office, he threw his chewed-up cigar against the wall and sat in his chair. He picked up his phone and called his mother, no answer. Sister, no answer. Brother, no answer.

  The rest of the day was filled with confusion, frustration, and mourning in Zhitkur. Popov had every one of his generals on the phone or in his office, interrogating them about how this could have happened. Seeing Volgograd get decimated was too much for Riccio to bear. He watched innocent people die because he gave code drops and plan updates to Natalizio to protect his DarkRooms encounters. Riccio approached Alexeev, “General, I need to talk to you.”

  “What, Riccio,” Alexeev said, perturbed at the interruption.

  “I have information about the satellite misfire.”

  “Come with me.” Alexeev took Riccio to a nearby conference room, where Riccio told him of everything, how he was blackmailed by Natalizio, how he gave him code drops and plans, how he feared what Natalizio would do to him if he didn’t comply. Alexeev seethed as Riccio spilled his guts. “You’re going to explain this to the chairperson,” Alexeev said.

  “No, I’m not.” Riccio pulled a gun from his jacket, put it to his temple, and pulled the trigger. Alexeev tried to get to him before he shot himself but didn’t make it. He walked out of the conference room, blood splattered on his uniform, the dead Riccio lying across the conference room table, his blood dripping off the table onto the carpet.

  Alexeev went to Popov’s office, still speckled with Riccio’s blood, and explained everything Riccio had done and how he killed himself before having to face Popov. Popov was furious and wanted to execute Alexeev on the spot but knew he needed him. He charged Alexeev with fixing the Zeus mess as if his life depended on it, because it did.

  In the following months, control of Zeus changed hands almost daily. With each control change, Paul and Popov used the opportunity to strike populous cities in each other’s ethnarchies and those of their allies. Rome, London, Moscow, Shanghai, Paris, New York, Singapore, Tokyo, and Delhi--all severely damaged. A Zeus laser strike triggered the eruption of Mount Vesuvius, coating Paul and Caleb’s Naples hometown with meters of lava and volcanic ash. Millions around the world died, their rotting corpses strewn about, decomposing in full sight of the living. Some died from the Stigma blood cancer, some from famine, others from Zeus’s strikes. Ethnarchy chairpersons and their cabinets were forced to go into hiding in secured bunkers. With so many code patches being deployed by Europe and Russia to control Zeus, it became more and more unstable, seemingly firing with a mind of its own. Zeus was striking oceans killing its inhabitants, striking faults triggering earthquakes, and hitting nuclear installations causing meltdowns. Neither Popov nor Paul could stop trying to gain control over Zeus, if one gave up it meant certain annihilation for the other. They had no choice but to continue their destructive actions, which Paul took great delight in.

  The March on Rome

  2069

  P opov called Zhao and Maghur to Moscow to plan how they were going to stop Paul and the European Ethnarchy. For two and a half years, Zeus continued its unpredictability, firing in every ethnarchy without rhyme or reason. Keeping basic services running like electricity and clean water was nearly impossible. Corpses were piling up on city streets, remote villages, and country farms. Anything broadcast on HoloMate, for those who could still connect to it, was propaganda about how Russia, China, and Africa were causing the destruction and how Paul was the only way out of it, that he was the savior the world needed. MDSolution supplies were depleted. Once a chip wearer’s SK cells died off, something as innocuous as a cold became as lethal as the Stigma blood cancer. MDCentral too became unpredictable, randomly VFing chip wearers as electrical pulses from Zeus strikes interfered with communications between MDCentral and MDChips. What was most terrifying was that Paul didn’t want any of this to stop. The chaos, pain, and suffering were like a drug rush to him. He needed to kee
p it going to stay on this high he was on.

  Popov, Maghur and Zhao met in Popov’s command center in Zhitkur. Popov took them into the room where Alexeev and his agents were furiously working to regain control of Zeus and stop the random strikes. Alexeev would gain control, then Natalizio, then back to Alexeev, and so it went. Popov wanted to end the conflict, and Paul wanted to keep it going. Maghur and Zhao saw first-hand the struggle and how it would never end unless they took a different path, which is what Popov wanted to discuss.

  Popov took them to the same conference room where Riccio had blown his brains out two years earlier, the outline of his blood stains still on the carpet. The three of them sat down at the table. Popov took one of his last remaining cigars from his coat pocket and began. “Chairpersons, we can’t continue this way. As long as Ambrosi is walking the earth, this devastation will continue. He doesn’t want it to stop. We need to stop him if we’re going to survive.”

  “How?” Maghur asked. “We can’t rely on Zeus; our air and nuclear capability is obliterated. Supplies and manpower are decimated.”

  Popov pulled the unlit cigar from his mouth. “All we have left is ground. With anyone we can muster, with sticks and stones if necessary.”

  Zhao sat silently, staring at the blood stains on the carpet. “How these get here?” Zhao interrupted, pointing to the blood stains.

  “We killed the person responsible for the Zeus mess.” Popov wanted them to think he was in control of the situation with Riccio and that he killed him on the spot. If Popov told them Riccio killed himself it would have made him look weak. Zhao nodded his head, suspecting Popov was lying.

  Popov continued. “None of us can do it on our own, Ambrosi is still too strong. We need to do it together.”

  Maghur and Zhao knew he was right. They would have to march on to Rome and take Ambrosi through a coordinated ground attack. “What’s your plan?” Maghur asked.

  “Africa by sea from the south and west, China from the east, Russia from the north. Start movement with whatever you’ve got and pick up anything or anyone along the way who’ll help.”

  “Many won’t make it, with this heat,” Maghur said. The earth’s average temperature had risen 10 degrees Celsius due to massive increases in greenhouse gas emissions. Maghur continued, “And it’s always dark because of the smoke, thanks to your baby Zeus.” Maghur continued his rant. “I can’t believe we’ve resorted to this. In this day and age, with all advances in weapons, we’re about to fight a battle like the Battle of the Metaurus,” referring to a battle between Rome and Carthage fought centuries earlier. Rome won the battle decisively.

  “We hope different victor this time,” Zhao said.

  The three continued their plan of when the attack would commence. They agreed to get their armies in position and to begin their march on Rome in three weeks. They all knew the stakes--if they were successful in capturing and killing Paul, they would have a chance to rebuild. If not, then the world’s misery would continue.

  “Ambrosi will be waiting for us,” Popov said. “We must persevere.”

  The three chairpersons got up from their chairs, somber at the reality of their situation and what they were about to do. They had no choice. It had to be done.

  Tetelestai

  2069

  A fter leaving Zhitkur, the three chairpersons finalized plans with their respective lieutenants. It was a case of all-hands-on-deck--whoever they could get, with whatever weapons they had, would march on Rome. Zhao was able to persuade the Asia Chairperson Chiyo Ikeda to join in the march. Ikeda was distressed at having to do this to her old friend Paul, but she also recognized the Paul she knew years ago bore no likeness to the current-day Paul who was causing so much pain in the world.

  Zeus strikes had long ago obliterated the Europe Ethnarchy government building that held Paul’s office, so he had moved, along with the cyberintel command center, to a fortified underground facility in Vatican City. Before moving in, Paul ordered the names of every pope interred in the Basilica be chiseled off their monuments, starting with that of his old boss Pius XIV who died two years prior. In Paul’s mind, none of the popes in history approached his greatness and didn’t deserve to have their names in his sight.

  Paul, Caleb and Natalizio continued their daily meetings, which ran as long as eight hours depending on how much Paul wanted to rant that day. They had been discussing the march on Rome for days, as one of their few remaining agents in the field tipped them off to Popov’s plan. Paul wasn’t at all concerned about the march, he welcomed the conflict, delusional that his Europe Ethnarchy would ward off any attack. After all, in his mind, he was God. No one could possibly stop him. Caleb and Natalizio didn’t share his optimism. On the day before the planned march, the three sat in Paul’s office with Paul barking out orders to be carried out in between rambling lectures on how he would never be defeated because he was God.

  “Chairperson, there are millions heading to Rome. We’re outnumbered. We can’t sustain this,” Natalizio said. He and Caleb had been trying to convince Paul for weeks to back down. Their requests fell on deaf ears, with Paul growing increasingly agitated every time one of them mentioned backing down.

  “You have me, a hundred-million couldn’t defeat me,” Paul said. He truly believed he was invincible; no army of any size could bring him down. Caleb and Natalizio had heard these words countless times from Paul. Trying to convince him otherwise had grown futile. Caleb and Natalizio knew this was a death march for them but could do nothing to stop the maniac that was their chairperson.

  Paul continued, “We will meet The Three Fools with nothing like they’ve ever seen. They won’t survive the day.” Paul blathered for another hour about the Europe Ethnarchy would annihilate anyone who tried to topple it, and how no army was greater than Paul the God.

  The day of the march came. In his command center, Paul, Caleb and Natalizio could see pictures of a sea of men, women and children, some holding guns, some riding on horseback, some with slings and stones. The darkness continued, with it looking like night even at noon. The air was filled with smoke and volcanic ash due to a Zeus strike on the Alban Mountains, triggering a massive eruption. Nothing was going to stop his determined enemies, not even the darkness of night or the smoke and ash filling their lungs. For those attacking Rome, this was a fight for survival as a human race. Caleb and Natalizio watched the screens as the swarm approached. Perhaps they would be killed instantly, or their enemies would torture them first. It was too much for Natalizio. He left the command center, went into the bathroom, pulled out a gun, put it in his mouth, and blew the back of his head off.

  Paul and Caleb continued watching the screens, oblivious to Natalizio’s exit. The agents in the command center watched as even some Europe Ethnarchy citizens who were fed up with Paul joined the mob. As they hit the rubble that used to be Rome they were met by Paul’s army. Paul’s own forces were distressed when they saw the vast crowd moving in on them.

  Just as the first shots were fired and rocks slung, a bright white light appeared in the sky. Caleb assumed it was yet another rogue Zeus strike.

  But this light was different.

  It lit up the entire sky, brighter than the sun but not painful to the eyes. Then there was the same deep-bass voice the world heard seven years ago. It wasn’t saying now like during the rapture. It said tetelestai, tetelestai, tetelestai, meaning “it is finished,” the same word Jesus uttered right before dying on the cross. After the third tetelestai, the same Middle C trumpet sounded, gradually getting louder. Paul saw his army stop fighting, staring up at the light, frozen with fear, remembering what happened the last time they heard the low-bass voice and the trumpet. Just as during the rapture, the trumpet sound turned into a screech painful to the ear.

  This time, though, the screech continued, then an image of horse with a rider came down through the light. The screech got louder as the rider descended on the earth, getting loud enough to burst eardrums. Oddly, Paul was unaffected
by the screech, which he attributed to his Godhood. As the rider continued closer, the light emitted a pulse, which then triggered VFs in all MDChip wearers and caused the StigmaChip glued to each wearer’s forehead to burn away, leaving a square of burnt flesh on the forehead where the chip had been. Paul turned to Caleb and watched him grab his chest after the VF, then saw what looked like a lit fuse on his forehead.

  Paul then looked up and saw the rider approach him, the rider’s eyes like a blazing fire. Paul knew who the rider was, and he knew the rider came for him. He didn’t know how he knew, he just did. Paul felt a wind at his legs, lifting him and Caleb together from the command center floor. Paul closed his eyes as they rose up through the roof, traveling through it as if the roof wasn’t there. In all his Godhood, Paul was powerless in the clutches of the rider. Paul opened his eyes to see himself and Caleb in the air, as if they were riding on an invisible pillow, traveling southeast through Rome. Paul looked at Caleb, now unconscious, blood dripping from his ears, his hands on his chest, the skin on his forehead burned away.

  Paul and Caleb continued their southeast journey. He lay down next to Caleb, unable to change his fate, his life’s movie reel playing in his head. He thought about his father telling him to not let life get in the way of love. He thought about his mother and the dented folding stool he kept in his office, his daily reminder of her dying on the one day he didn’t walk with her to the mausoleum. He thought of his sister, how she was there when he awoke from his brain death. He thought of Pope Pius XIV, how he gave Paul his start in politics as a senator representing Vatican City. He thought of Caleb and his loyalty to Paul right up to his death. He thought of his friend and fellow senator Dalia Backus whom he had VFd for no reason other than to put his power on display. He thought about his best friend growing up, Bert, and how he so admired the life he had with his wife Laura and their son JT.