Come to the Lord

By Elver von Gondwanis

Overconfidence can be one's biggest weakness.

A world without hunger, without poverty, and without war.

Impossible?

We thought so until the alien came to take control of the world and usher in the golden age so many had been praying for.

Did altruism guide his actions or was there some dark unmentionable purpose behind his intent?

Though the majority of the world was rejoicing their salvation, a handful of rebels discover what appears to be the truth.

How can they plan a bold stroke under constant surveillance?

Overconfidence can lead to one's downfall.

Conspiracy, Science Fiction, and Religion converge on a collision course with destiny.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Martian Publishing
• Release date: Sep 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463505281

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

THE ALL-PURPOSE EXPLANATION

It was done for our own good, of course.

When In'tigaddijekt arrived at our world, he brought new technology – though I never saw much of it – and the promise of a better world for all of us.

Suddenly, war was a thing of the past, poverty was eradicated, and the good life seemed to arrive for one and all… yes, the American Dream went global.

Of course, there was a price to be paid and, as usual, most people were willing to submit to the necessities that ensured our new and improved existence.

On paper, life on Earth seemed to have entered the Golden Age prophesied by cranks and mimics for at least the several contiguous millennia recently passed. The vast majority, merely wishing to get on with the daily process of living, were pleased as punch.

For others…

Well, let's just say things were not quite as nifty as the shiny posters claimed. But when life is good for most, secure and safe, you just know the alleged criminal types were not going to be happy about it.

Whatever scenario one envisioned, someone would find fault in it.

Eventually, that included me.

~~~~

CHAPTER TWO

OF DREAMS AND PAPER LOVERS

Keeping everyone happy and productive is a great campaign slogan. Great if you don't read too deeply into what all the possible ramifications might be.

Jovial Mrs. Torbert – that would be my Mom – was happy to finally have the medication she needed for her condition without the monthly battle of the red tape. Nor was the prohibitive cost of the damned drugs taking its usual chunk of my monthly income. After a couple of months on the new regimen, she was looking healthier than I had seen her in a while.

Mickey, she smiled at me one morning as I prepared for work, with my condition stabilizing, I think I can finally get into physical therapy. She looked down and patted her bulk. Maybe finally get rid of this unwanted hundred or two pounds I've been carrying around.

I grinned and kissed her cheek. That's great, Mom! What surprises me is that the doctors couldn't get you on something that wouldn't balloon your weight from the beginning. Didn't they know about this other stuff?

She laughed. What would you expect with the greedy pharma companies controlling the medical industry? Without that in place anymore, we can finally get some decent medical care.

She maneuvered her wheelchair back a bit and I squeezed past to go to work.

My last sight of her, she was glowing and looking ahead to a brighter future.

~~~~

CHAPTER THREE

A KNOCK NEVER COMES FROM NO ONE

Mom! I'm home!

The house was strangely quiet. When I returned home, the television was usually blaring the not-too-intricate machinations of the stars of whichever soap was on at that time. I never paid attention to the names of the damned things – they all sounded the same to me – but she watched them religiously.

Mom? I headed for the den and was surprised to see furniture I did not recall.

Excuse me? A voice came from the hallway to the bedrooms and I turned to see a stranger coming toward me. A gray-haired woman, looking two hundred pounds smaller than the face I had anticipated seeing, was looking at me a bit hesitantly.

Who are you? I asked.

Margery Winstead. She looked rather embarrassed.

Craning my neck, I looked behind her along the hallway. Have you seen my Mother?

The woman sighed and shook her head. I'm afraid there've been some changes.

What sort of changes?

I made to move past her when she said, Maybe you'd better sit down a minute.

Returning to the living room, I sat on the edge of the couch cushion ready to bolt if need be. So where's Mom?

Sighing, she shook her head. Probably wherever my Daniel is. My son has a condition, you see, and he…

I was on my feet. So which hospital is she in?

Embarrassed, Mrs. Winstead shook her head. I told them that someone should inform you. I'm afraid I'm making a mess of this.

Sensing that she was as much a victim here as myself, I sat down again and nodded. Please, continue. Still, I was clenching and unclenching my fists.

I was awoken this morning by some gentlemen in white coats who were removing David from the house. They were very curt with me and wouldn't answer all my questions… kept saying, someone would be along. She shook her head, Next thing I knew, the ambulance was gone and a moving van appeared and they began moving my furniture out explaining that since I was elderly that I should be in housing with another person. She began crying. I thought they were talking about an assisted living center… You know, one of those places for senior citizens?

Nodding, I passed her a box of tissues from a side table.

When she had finished blowing her nose, I asked, So, they brought you to this house? And said what?

They said you had recently lost your mother and…

That's a lie! I was on my feet again. What the hell is going on around here?

She was blubbering again. They said if there was any problem I should go talk to someone at social services. She blew her nose again. They left a card in the kitchen…

Stepping into the kitchen, I scooped up the card and headed for the telephone.

A few seconds later, I reached the recording that listed off their office hours and I slammed the receiver back on its hook.

Going back into the living room, I said, Of course their offices are closed and they don't have any emergency numbers listed to call after hours. I felt like issuing a string of profanity but I would not do that in front of my Mother and I wouldn't do it in front of this elderly woman either. I guess I'll have to go over there first thing tomorrow and find out what's going on.

Would you? She nodded. I need to know where they've taken David. He's such a fragile boy.

Yes. I'll ask about your son as well but I plan on getting to the bottom of this. This is an outrage!

In a disturbed state, I went upstairs hoping my room was still my room. Fortunately, I appeared to be untouched although the upstairs hallway seemed to have changed.

While I was staring at the hall, trying to figure out what was changed, her voice came from downstairs.

And I believe they did something to the house as well.

Now that she mentioned it, it did seem that the upper hall was somehow shorter than it had been. I went to the last door on the right – the guest bedroom that had once been my older brother's room – and pushed the door open.

It was now a closet.

What was going on?

Back down the stairs I went. So what have they done to the house?

She looked worried and said, I don't know for sure. They said something about normalizing the footprint… she shrugged, or something.

Passing through the kitchen – which appeared normal as far as I noticed – and stepped out into the backyard.

Before I could even turned to examine the house, I saw that the backyard was a bit smaller than it was last I saw. Crazy! Turning to check out the house, I could not make out any changes… Well, other than it was a bit less wide than it had been this morning.

I went back indoors fuming. Someone was obviously overstepping their powers here. I did not know who but I was going to find out.

Then they were going to put everything back the way it was.

~~~~

CHAPTER FOUR

I THINK THAT I SHALL NEVER SEE…

Mrs. Winstead was nice enough – I have no complaints on that score – but she was not my Mom. She felt the same way; though a bit relieved at not having to cope with a hopelessly disabled child any longer, still I was not her son.

It was almost as if those in charge had no concept of human emotional ties, what it is that keeps us connected to another human being. It was not her maternality that connected me to Mom, it was that she was my Mom.

The next morning, I was at Social Services when they opened for business.

I asked if they could tell me where Mom had gotten to – where they had moved her – but was told it would take some time for them to check their records. I thought the entire chipping program they had implemented was meant to ensure they could find anyone, anywhere, at any time. It was the slogan promised on all the posters. Yeah, I know, they were talking about children gone missing but shouldn't it apply to parents as well?

I was still grousing about it when I got back to my new, improved homelife.

What seems to be the problem today, Mickey?

Well, Mrs. Winstead, she had told me to call her Margaret but that was never going to happen, it seems the Bureau of Social Services doesn't seem to have a clue how to access the chips they put into everyone some time ago.

She smiled a weary smile and shook her head. I know. I went to them the first day after Daniel went missing and they promised to let me know what they uncovered.

And that was yesterday, right?

She shook her head. No, Daniel was gone for over a week before they moved me here.

You mean two weeks ago?

She nodded again. So far, you can guess what sort of response I've gotten.

Nothing, right?

Bingo! You got it! Zilch! Zippo! Nada!

She was the sort that liked to repeat her sentiments like that.

So, what does it mean, do you suppose?

I should imagine it means they have been terminated.

Killed!? The blood drained from my face and settled somewhere in the vicinity of the toes in my sneakers. But… I mean, how? How can they justify such a thing!

She shrugged. Organizational enforced evolution, for all I know. Trim the fat and keep the healthy herd moving forward, smiling in place.

I stared at her. You seem to have submitted to the inevitability of this situation mighty fast. Don't you care?

Her eyes flashed. Of course I care! But what can I do? I am just one old woman who seems to have lost her reason to exist. Tears overflowed as she shook her head. If there was something I could do, I would, but there just seems… seems… She buried her face in her hands.

After a moment, I stepped close, took her in my arms. Resisting at first, after a moment she clutched me tightly and buried her face in my chest, wailing, What have they done to my boy? What did they do to poor Daniel?

There, there. I patted her back and tried to think of something comforting to say but… Hell! What can you tell a woman about the loss of her son that doesn't sound completely asinine or cliché-ish.?

After a time, she pulled herself together and turned away from me, embarrassed. Sorry. I didn't mean to get all blubbery on you. She found a tissue in her pocket and wiped her face and nose.

No problem, Mrs. Winstead. I know exactly how you feel. I just wish there was something we could do about it, is all.

Turning her puffy eyes back toward me, she tried a smile which looked rather painful in the trying. I know you're worried about your mother as well but I think at this point all we can do is pray for them and hope they are safe wherever they are. She sniffed. Even if it is back home in the bosom of their Creator.

Still rooted to the spot in the living room, I heard her rustling around in the kitchen probably trying to figure out something for dinner. A memory came back of my Mom doing the same thing – back before her disability – whenever she was upset, she went into the kitchen to find something to cook.

We each had our ways of dealing with stress and loss. While contemplating that notion, I recalled I had not touched my stress-reliever for quite some time.

Climbing the stairs up to my bedroom, I slipped into my comfortable pajama bottoms and a tee-shirt and sat down in front of my computer. While it booted up, I tried to remember the last time I checked the feed from Mars.

Far too long, I supposed. With the present conditions creating such anxieties, I might be returning to it more and more.

I first opened the recording program. It wouldn't do any good to start the feed from the Rover before I had the recording set up. You never know what you might lose in even those few seconds.

Once the recorder was on and recording, I opened the internet browser and clicked the favorite link to go to the NASA website and the free streaming feed from the surface of Mars.

I had always hoped to be one of those people who captured a glimpse of something obviously made by alien hands but, so far, I had not been lucky enough to find even a glimmer of such.

One thing I have to admit about the current administration, the internet was blinding fast these days. We didn't have the fiber-optic options that some areas could use but our satellite feed was generally pretty good for the task. Nowadays, the connection was fast and unbroken.

From the NASA main website, I clicked the link for the Rover's live feed and waited while the pop-up window created itself.

Static filled the window. It sometimes did that either because of a storm on the Martian service or the feed link itself was rectifying some disturbance. It usually cleared after a few moments even with our earlier slow collection.

But the static did not clear.

Waiting, waiting, expecting it to turn on at any moment, I waited for more than ten minutes before I realized nothing was going to happen. The usual warning experiencing gamma wave distortions at present or some such was not in evidence. It was as if the feed itself was corrupted… or broken.

Shutting down the feed, I scowled and shut off the recorder. A pop-up said: Save the recording?

Just about to click the no button, I paused. Perhaps the recording might give some clue to the source of the transmission's failure? Perhaps it might even help the boys at NASA figure out why it wasn't working.

I grinned. Yeah. Like they needed my lousy 128-bit recording! I was certain their equipment was far superior to anything I had.

I saved the file, regardless, and went to bed far more troubled than I had been in some time.

~~~~

CHAPTER FIVE

I LOVE YOUR… TOO

I returned to Social Services the next afternoon but they still had no word on where Mom was. I began to create a scene and a relatively pleasant – albeit firm – guy in a uniform told me I might have better luck at the Bureau of Displaced Persons.

Yeah, you guessed it: missing persons but under a new improved name.

I had to fill out a bunch of forms again because, of course, the paper work could not be transferred between the two offices. Even with all the wonderful improvements since the alien had taken over, this portion of the governmental red tape seemed very much alive and well. Of course, I was really thinking that they dragged their feet to dissuade any real action being taken on the issue.

The narrow-eyed clerk thanked me for the forms and said they would contact me when they had some word on her. He said they were a bit swamped at the moment which told me this was far from two isolated events.

On the way back home, I realized that it must be somehow a small minority of people in my situation otherwise I am certain there would be a mob outside theat particular Bureau.

Two days later, I was back at the Bureau to see if, on the off-chance, they had some news about my Mom's whereabouts.

The clerk was trying to be pleasant, but firm, and told me they would contact me if they had any information on the case. And until then, I should not reappear at their offices as she would be forced to write up a report.

I'm afraid I was a bit hot about it and said some pretty mean things to the young woman – and might have felt embarrassed if she had reacted like she cared or something – and was asked to leave.

So, I left. Waiting at the elevator outside the Bureau's offices, a gentleman came out of the door and approached me.

Excuse me… Mr. Torbert, is it?

I recalled the face. He was sitting at a desk near the information counter and had the decency to look embarrassed at my tirade; something the young woman had not been.

Yes?

I'm sorry to bother you, sir, but you have been here on previous occasions, I believe?

Yeah, so? The elevator door dinged and opened. I started forward but stopped halfway in when he grabbed my sleeve.

May I have your address please? I may send a caseworker over to help get to the bottom of your case.

I bristled. My address was on my complaint form. You can get it from…

He shook his head. Forgive me but Miss Cummings and I do not quite see eye to eye on certain matters. He held up a small notepad. Your address, please?

Edging into the elevator, leaving my hand in the way to obstruct its closing, I gave him the address and he seemed greatly relieved.

Thank you. Hopefully we will have someone contact you shortly.

I moved my hand. Yeah. Thanks! And watched the door close.

If the official policy was not going to help me – or Mrs. Winstead – locate our loved ones, I don't know what this mousy fellow or whatever help he sent over was going to accomplish.

Shrugging, I assumed it was a Bureaucratic-placebo and put it out of my thoughts.

~~~~

CHAPTER SIX

HIS CASE IS SO PLAINLY STATED

At work the next day, I got a summons about midmorning to go see Mr. Benjamin. One does not get ordered to the boss' office for cheese and cracker spread, at least not this far from Christmas, so I wondered what the heck was up. Had I left out a step in the quality assurance process?

I puzzled over the matter all the way to the office.

You wanted to see me, Mr. Benjamin?

Sleeves rolled up and his tie hanging a bit loose down from his unbuttoned top button, Benjamin glanced up. Yeah, Torbert. Come in and shut the door.

After complying, I sat in the chair in front of the man's desk. Sorry, sir, but the summons was a bit vague… Have I screwed up one of the lines?

He waved it off. No, no, Torbert, it's not your work. Damned good work you do, if you must know. But I have a complaint here from… He glanced down to see where the complaint originated. From the Bureau of Displaced Persons. Evidently, from what I gather, your mother has come up missing, I believe.

That's right, sir. I went there to see if they could help me locate her.

He stared at the communique. That's really odd, isn't it? I thought that was the very reason they wanted everyone chipped, so they could locate kidnapped persons.

Yes, sir, my thoughts exactly. I paused a moment. So what is the substance of this 'complaint'?

Well, he shrugged, eyes widening in a momentary confusion, he motioned to the paper. Evidently you were there yesterday, and from what I hear, you created quite a scene. He quickly held up a hand. I know how slow bureaucracies move – a thing that has not apparently changed under the new administration – but now they are asking me if there is some upset here at work. He shook his head. "Mickey, please! I do not need a bunch of eggheads from any bureau coming down here and crawling all over the place, interrupting the workflow and starting a lot of useless gossiping going on! Please! Please control your temper in public – especially when dealing with bureaucrats!"

I know my face was getting redder by the second but it wasn't from what I am sure he thought of: embarrassment. I was pissed that they would come here and create ancillary fallout from their lack of interest in clearing up their first monumental bungle.

Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. It won't happen again. Though I wanted to ask how his actions showed any of that team support he was normally quite big on.

The guy sighed. Thank you, Torbert. That will be all.

I left imagining that he was immediately on the phone with the Bureau to let them know the problem had been taken care of.

I felt nauseous.

~~~~

CHAPTER SEVEN

ONE NIGHT STAND (LAY)

I did not return to the Bureau again. I figured the help the one fellow had promised me had actually been the action message sent to Mr. Benjamin. I was put out that no one seemed to give a damn about people suddenly missing from a world designed specifically to stop that sort of thing.

After dinner, Mrs. Winstead, looking more bone-tired than usual, went to bed. From up in my room I barely heard the knock on the door. At first thinking I was simply hearing things, I ignored it. When it persisted, however, I went down to see if I could give directions to someone obviously lost.

Opening the door, I said, Can I help you? and immediately hoped I could, in any way possible. She was quite the looker and I thought I was fairly immune to such stuff since Kellyanne dumped me some fourteen months before and left me a bit disheartened about relations with the opposite sex; that sort of thing really sucked at boosting one's ego.

Yes, I hope so. Her voice was the closest thing I've ever heard to what has been described as a sing-song voice; one half-expected to hear an orchestra starting up on the front lawn. That is, a coy smile emerged, if you are Mickey Torbert.

I nodded. Okay, you got me. Whatever it is, I didn't do it… yet. I grinned like the fool I was and then remembered she was still standing outside. Uh, would you like to come in?

Coy smile again, Yes, thank you. She stepped inside. I'm Daniella Preswick and we need to talk.

I ushered her into the living room but she stood in the entryway still.

Uh, did you want to talk to me? I motioned again toward the living room.

She glanced up the stairs. Perhaps we should talk somewhere a little more private. I should hate to create an upset for… Mrs. Winstead, I believe?

Well, she's already gone to bed. She's looking worse and worse these days what with her son missing and…

She had started up the stairs.

I quickly went to the foot of the stairs. I don't think we'll disturb her…

I still think, she nodded, that another place might be more appropriate for our discussion. She continued up the stair.

I shrugged and followed.

At the top, she pointed to the right and looked at me questioningly. I looked to the left and she went that way, through the open door of my bedroom.

Have a seat. She motioned to my desk chair as she sat on the edge of the bed.

Taking the seat as directed, I said, I still don't know why you're here. You seem to know about Mrs. Winstead's case so I…

Mr. Torbert… Mickey, I am here for the Bureau of Displaced Persons. Mr. Enfield gave me your contact information. I now had a name to apply to the mousy little guy at the elevator. He said you were a bit distraught over your mother's disappearance and…

Yes. I thought that was why my place of employment was contacted. I didn't know they'd be sending someone to my home.

Yes. She leaned back, feeling the mattress with a hand. Nice mattress, so comfy.

Yeah, sure, but what's all this about?

She continued to caress the blankets with her hand. As with any escalating situation, means are implemented to ascertain the source of the upset. Mmm, this feels real comfortable. She reached up and undid her top button. But that is not the exact purpose of this meeting. Her fingers went to the next button. I am thinking we can perhaps come to a meeting of the minds, so to speak, and another button bit the dust, in order to stave off ill-feelings toward the department. We do so very much like to keep a positive public image. With the final button released, she began slipping the blouse off.

Dumb-founded would hardly describe my state at that moment. Expecting some sort of official sanctions brought upon me, I instead find an attractive woman disrobing on my bed.

Setting her blouse to one side, she looked at me. Shouldn't you be getting some of those clothes off as well? She reached both hands behind her back to unfasten her bra.

Though my eyes were riveted to the unfolding scene, I was able to stand and begin disrobing as well.

She smiled to see me racing and continued with her own show.

Buck naked, she pulled the covers back and climbed under them, holding them open for me to join her.

Presently, we were pleasantly engaged. She pulled the covers over us and put her mouth next to my ear to whisper. And it appeared that sweet nothings were the farthest thing from her mind.

Listen carefully, she whispered, there are cameras everywhere and everything you do can be and often is being observed.

It was probably not the best time to try and think. While doing so, a part of my anatomy seem to disconnect from the action. What do you mean? I whispered back.

Her hand discovered my condition. Concentrate, Mickey! We have to make this seem real, okay?

Closing my eyes, I nodded. Rather quickly, the situation was corrected; the heavy breathing recommenced.

You seem to be a person distrustful of the social conditions and seemingly going to create more trouble, am I right?

I just want my Mother back.

Fine. She was caressing me something fierce. There is a group of us attempting to change things. If you are interested, you can join us at the Scaramouche Club at the west side of town.

Never heard of it.

If you're interested, you'll find it. She shifted her position. Now, let's give them something to cover our tracks with. She grinned, sat up and threw the covers off, inserting my member inside her again. Now, she said. Now!

And we put on a pretty good show of a couple in heat.

When we had finished, she leaned over and kissed me. I'll see you later, I hope, she whispered and rolled off me.

Still caught in the rosy afterglow, by the time I sat up she was almost dressed again.

Leaving so soon? I thought maybe we could try for another round.

Not tonight, slugger. She grinned and refastened her bra. I take it that we won't be seeing you back at the Bureau again?

Cross my heart and all that. No. I shook my head. No more public displays for me. I chuckled. But if I had known what was coming from it, believe me, I would have complained louder and sooner.

She stopped buttoning her blouse long enough to lean over and pat my cheek. You're sweet. She grabbed her purse from the floor at the foot of the bed and said, I can let myself out. You get some rest.

And she was gone.

I debated whether I should pinch myself to see if this was a dream but then scotched the notion. Dream or not, I didn't want to wake up for a while.

I went to sleep.

~~~~

PART ONE

SUCH A DEADLY SILENCE

~~~~

CHAPTER EIGHT

QUANTUM THEOLOGY – AN UNUSUAL MARRIAGE

It was a full week before I went to the Scaramouche.

Part of me wanted to return to the Bureau and ask for Ms. Preswick but part of me would rather the dream-like state continue for a while longer. Eventually, I thought that perhaps she hung out at the place and that might be the best chance I'd have in seeing her again.

I drove out west on the main drag and looked for the place. As I seemed to be heading beyond the city limits, I thought maybe I should have checked its address before I hit the road but she had said it was on the western edge of town. I figured it was a club, so there had to be some neon out front.

Undeterred, I pulled into a dimly lit parking lot to turn around and go back to search the area again when I saw a very small unlit sign in the lot.

PARKING FOR SCARAMOUCHE CLUB MEMBERS ONLY

Well, what do you know! I had driven into the place without even knowing. There was plenty of available parking so I took the closest place to the entry I could find. As the area seemed to be a seedy part of town, I locked the car up tight before heading for the structure.

It seemed a tiny club with only a small bulb glaring above the dark-colored door. In the dimness, it could have been any dark shade but to my mind, it most resembled the shade of dried blood. Had I been in for omens, I would have counted that as a fairly obvious one.

But omens and me were never really that close to speaking terms.

As I neared the door, I could make out the sound of music coming from within. As small as the place was, it seemed they had the juke box muted somewhat. I shrugged and opened the door.

Across a small vestibule were two swinging doors that led onward. I shrugged and pushed on through. Here the music could more distinctly be heard though still somewhat muted.

On the right side of this small room-beyond-the-vestibule, a guy looked up from his newspaper. Sorry, bub. This is a private club. Members only.

Yes, I know, I said, I was…

You got a card? You don't look familiar so I has to ask. He reached his opened hand across the counter.

I shook my head. "No, I don't have a card. I'm not a member. But Ms.