The Raging Agnostics: Volume One

By Peter Richter

A series of natural disasters conceal what might be terrorist attacks. Enter Edward Talbot, the latest member of a generation of an anonymous and singular family line of what might be deemed “Messiahs-in-waiting” or “God’s warriors”. On loan from the secret government organisation who resource his family line (and study them with perhaps an eye to control them), Edward helps investigate the reasons behind the disasters.
He soon discovers strange truths that threaten to fully negate the prospect of him ever being Messiah. Amongst the mysteries he encounters is what appears to be an alien incursion, a sub-culture of militant vampires and an insidious government experiment involving neurological dimmer switches. Additionally, the demonic entities he regularly encounters start to look like they may have nothing to do with religion and everything to do with quantum physics. And all of it begins to look disturbingly interconnected.
Luckily for Edward, he’s been the recipient of an in-depth scientific education that has made him agnostic – meaning he no longer accepts anything on faith but instead thrives on questioning everything and will not stop until he has all the answers – much to the chagrin (and frequent alarm) of those who are most happy to blindly follow him.
COLLECT THE WHOLE SET!
(EPISODES 1–3 OF 14)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: May 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781787105010

Peter Richter

Peter Richter was born in Whyalla, South Australia, in 1964. He moved with his parents to live in the nearby capital, Adelaide, shortly after the Beatles made the city briefly fashionable. Whilst pursuing his dream of becoming a writer, he wandered through many jobs, chief amongst them being a copywriter and serving as a writer/presenter on the local radio show, Science Fiction Review (1988–2002). Having wasted too much time as a critic, he has finally put his money where his mouth is to produce his magnum opus, The Raging Agnostics.

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About the Author

Peter Richter was born in Whyalla, South Australia, in 1964. He moved with his parents to live in the nearby capital, Adelaide, shortly after the Beatles made the city briefly fashionable.

Whilst pursuing his dream of becoming a writer, he wandered through many jobs, chief amongst them being a copywriter and serving as a writer/presenter on the local radio show, Science Fiction Review (1988–2002). Having wasted too much time as a critic, he has finally put his money where his mouth is to produce his magnum opus, The Raging Agnostics.

Dedication

To every author and filmmaker who has ventured into the realm of imagination before me. Even though I clearly follow in their well-trampled footsteps, I can but hope I have occasionally found an unbeaten path of my own and may perhaps inspire some of those yet to follow.

Copyright Information ©

Peter Richter (2021)

The right of Peter Richter to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398434004 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398451919 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781787105010 (ePub e-book)

ISBN 9781398451926 (Audiobook)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2021)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LQ

Acknowledgement

For their advice, encouragement and support, the author would like to thank Team Clayton – Angela, Jaimee and Taylor; members of the Allen Clan – patriarch J.D. as well as sons, David and Bruce; as well as long-time friends, Stephen Jarrett and Gunther Polheim.

Extra special thanks to Virginia Meadows for being the lone voice of reason amongst the medical profession who has been helping me beat the odds these last few years.

Foreworded Is Forearmed

The following statement is featured later in this book:

To be considered a worthwhile human being, you must possess three qualities. The three Is: intelligence, imagination and an irreverent sense of humour.

I feel the comment bears elaboration before proceeding any further. It is my opinion that intelligence and imagination will get you to your destination, but only an irreverent sense of humour will place the journey into perspective.

With that in mind…

I consider the three most important storytelling genres to be science fiction, horror and comedy. (I hate it when people refer to genre stories or genre films. All stories are genre stories. The word genre means classification. Therefore, genre story essentially means story. A tautology if ever there was one. If you want to classify the story you are telling, damn well state the genre it belongs to and don’t be so damn lazy as to use the word genre in its place! Pardon my indigression.)

Indeed, I view science fiction, horror and comedy as a literary form of Siamese triplets. Horror is in the middle. It is joined at one hip by comedy because both genres utilise the same storytelling mechanisms. They both attempt to generate suspense and then surprise you with an unexpected circuit breaker. The only way of telling them apart is that one makes you laugh, the other makes you scream. (If you do neither, then the storyteller has likely failed at his or her job. Or maybe there’s something wrong with you. Perhaps you should take a good long hard look at yourself in the mirror.)

Horror is joined at the other hip by science fiction. They represent the two ends of the spectrum of what it means to be human.

(Another indigression: I am of the opinion that to have a complete understanding of anything, you must fully appreciate what constitutes its opposite. People who claim to be realists, yet don’t comprehend – or worse, despise – science fiction and horror are not true realists because they have no respect or capacity for abstract thought.)

So what constitutes the two extremes of what we would call the human condition or experience? I contend they are the individual and the society. One cannot exist without the other. I realise there are those who can be self-sufficient as individuals, living off the land and/or off the grid and eschew any contact with their fellow human beings, but they can’t have been born in the first place without two prior human beings indulging in a bit of old-fashioned propagation.

Anything more than one person constitutes a society. Sorry, no one ever truly lives in isolation. Therefore, we constantly need to explore the juxtaposition between both extremes to properly understand what it means to be human. Thus, the pastime of storytelling in which we are all compelled to indulge.

Horror represents the plight of the individual. I specifically use the word plight because ultimately all individuals, no matter how good or bad, how happy or sad their lives may be, they only have those lives at the sufferance of society. Despite our personal input, our every moment is, on some level, fashioned by the society in which we live. Ergo horror examines the plight of the individual.

Science fiction concerns itself with the species as an entity. It examines social structure, especially dominating trends and forecasting where they will lead if left unchecked. (Science fiction is not, as many think, simply concerned with spaceships, ray guns and aliens, even if it frequently utilises such props, as does this book. To reduce the genre to only being about set dressings would be akin to denying Shakespeare the right to being performed in modern garb.)

Take George Orwell’s 1984. (Please…no, just kidding. 1984 is possibly the most important book ever written. If you are not familiar with it, you should do so at your earliest convenience. Though, be warned, it starts out in a bleak place and goes steadily downhill from there.) From the point of view of its central character, Winston Smith, the story is one of soul-destroying horror at being trapped in a totalitarian society that gleefully brutalises its own citizenry should any of them dare step out of line. As an examination of a society, it is a triumph of totalitarian engineering. So not only is it a chilling tale of horror, but a true touchstone of science fiction. Two genres joined at the hip for the price of one. What a pity it doesn’t have any jokes.

Actually, it did make me laugh out loud in one place, though I doubt it was Orwell’s intention. The moment in question may have been born of a fit of sarcasm, but it was personal circumstance that let me see the funny side…albeit briefly. Orwell explains how the tiny hierarchy of his future society can keep the wider populace under its thrall when surveillance on every single individual proves a logistical impossibility. Without giving away the specifics (you must find them out for yourself), it was upon reading the ingredient list for how to keep a population preoccupied and subservient that I suddenly realised, that’s the Australian way of life! I laughed, then stopped, realising in despair, that’s the Australian way of life! Well, we’re stuffed good and proper.

So science fiction and horror share a philosophical relationship. The combination of science fiction, horror and comedy therefore paint the best and most comprehensive picture of what it means to be human. Or, to relate it back to the opening statement, science fiction equates to intelligence as horror does to imagination and comedy is the icing on the cake that provides perspective.

Now this is all strictly my opinion arrived at by a misspent life of watching movies and reading books. (What, was there something else I was supposed to be doing?) You are free to disagree with me, but if you are to stand a chance of making it all the way through this tome without getting too angry at me, yourself or others, you need to keep in mind the mindset with which I embarked upon this endeavour.

Many thanks for your

indulgence this far.

(May it continue…)

Peter Richter.

Gather round the campfire, children,

and I’ll tell you a tale of the folly of adults

and the woe that shall befall the Earth

if they are not careful…

***

History repeats itself, first as tragedy, second as farce.

Karl Marx

(May 5, 1818–March 14, 1883)

The Agnostic Oath

Agnostics must live in perpetual awareness of how little they know.

They must question everything and then go looking for the answer.

They must never accept an answer as being true without verifiable evidence to back up every and all assertions.

Accepting anything as true without the requisite proof will be decried as a cop out or pure laziness and therefore deemed inexcusable and unacceptable

No one person can know everything (and yes, that includes you!), nor can they be responsible for asking every essential question

This is why agnostics must value above all else contributions made by the individual.

The agnostic must always advocate for the independence and protection of the individual from any oppressive acts brought to bear upon them by the society in which they live.

It is the very uniqueness of the individual that is their gift to the furtherance of any and all societies and the species as a whole that is humanity.

However, this respect for the individual must only ever infuse and never hinder the symbiotic relationship that should exist between the individual and society.

Remember, the lifespan of the individual is infinitesimal, whereas the lifespan of humanity is potentially infinite. It is the efforts of the individual that will help the species reach its full potential.

Society must encourage all individuals to make a contribution, but the contribution must be of the individual’s own making provided it does not impede progress of the society or the species.

There endeth the sermon.

Now go out there and learn something new.

***

Prologue:

Seismic Matters

October 22

January 17

Though they sat some miles distant, the Pyramids of Giza glowed with distinct definition. Bathed in man-made light for the duration of night, they stood out in stark contrast against the surrounding shadowed desert. Admiring the view was a contemplative Arab on camelback, Hamad of the Negev Bedouins. He was so named after an ancestor who had been involved in the 20th Century conflict involving the Suez Canal.

As a member of the Negev Bedouins, Hamad naturally hailed from Israel, but he rejected the Jewish push to break the Negev of their nomadic Arab instincts in his own homeland. Instead he chose to eke out his meagre existence with a greater freedom here in the equally harsh social environment of Egypt.

Indeed, here he now sat on the verge of contentment, upon the back of his prized camel, Sufi. He had so named his camel also in deference to his respected ancestry. Burdened by a slight speech impediment, Hamad eventually discovered many of his countrymen thought he had actually named his camel Sophie.

Sufi, it should be noted, was also a native of the Middle East. Such was almost not the case. The conniving camel trader (whose name shall never again be uttered by Hamad unless accompanied by copious spit) who had sold him Sufi had first attempted to sell him one of those inferior foreign animals now flooding the market in ever greater numbers. A booming trade in camels imported from no less an infidel citadel than that country known as Australia was ruining the local market!

Now, however, was not the time for angry thoughts. It was near 4 a.m. and Hamad had trouble sleeping. An uneasiness lurked in his soul, but it was largely quieted by the vista before him. No other place on Earth could boast such historic grandeur as Giza.

For many the Pyramids were simply the backdrop to fanciful tales like that of the ancient Exodus led by the historically questionable, yet mythologically powerful Moses. As an Arab, Hamad did not especially care for a tale in which the Jewish people escape bondage to be held with such reverence. Maybe one day, he liked to imagine, the descendants of the Negev may have such a story of their own in fleeing Israel.

No, this place fascinated him more so because it had once been the centre of the Universe. Long before Moses and the Jews. Here the pharaohs had found a way to rival the majesty and power of Nature. Hamad wondered how the Pyramids must have looked when they were newly constructed and not worn by time and theft.

The sides of the Pyramids, he had been led to believe, on the largest two at any rate, were once smooth polished planes made from Tura stones that would have gleamed an alabaster white. Not just during the day, he imagined, but also by night, especially in the light of the full moon.

Now the Pyramids stood as a collection of some giant child’s building blocks meticulously stacked with the finesse of OCD. As noted before, they were now dependent upon man made light to retain a semblance of their former glory at night, rather than commune with Nature as the pharaohs intended.

Maybe there was a lesson in all this, even for his people who had otherwise learned long ago to live alongside an often volatile and hostile nature. Allah’s way of making his devout followers the hardiest of people. The pharaohs, by contrast, had scaled heights the Negev would never have dared or dreamed.

Though he had to concede the significance of any such lesson puzzled him. Here stood the Pyramids to this very day, admittedly a little worse for wear, but they would undoubtedly remain standing long after humanity was forgotten. The pharaohs, however, were no longer anywhere to be seen. It is as if they had been punished for their arrogance. So what was Allah’s lesson in destroying the pharaohs, but letting the Pyramids stand as monument?

If the Pyramids demonstrated lowly humanity’s capacity for greatness, was there a way to combine such potential with the expected humbleness all should display before Allah? (Which Hamad did faithfully by prostrating himself five times a day.) Did Allah want us to become physically closer to his heavenly realm as well as spiritually?

As if in answer to his thoughts, Hamad spotted a slow-moving star rise from the horizon, ascending above the Pyramids. He had to crane his neck as the star reached its zenith almost directly above him where it halted and became indistinguishable from the infinite multitude of stars that already filled the night sky.

Sufi gave a nervous bellow and lurched sideways, then back again in an uncertain dance. Hamad tried to calm his faithful beast, but then felt for himself the disturbance in the ground rise up through the camel’s body and he all but lost interest in Sufi’s feelings.

He at first thought an earthquake was approaching, but it was not a chaotic rumbling that overtook the land. Instead it was the steady pulse of a heartbeat, as if the Earth had decided to reveal it too had a human heart, but one of immense size. The pulsing grew in intensity giving no sign of reaching a peak.

The lights cast upon the Pyramids winked out, as did all the lighting that stretched towards neighbouring Cairo. Then, far to Hamad’s left, he saw a shadow lift from the land and race towards the Pyramids, race towards him, indeed, race towards everything! In a terrible flash of insight, Hamad thought Allah was prematurely pulling a sheet or shroud over the world like it was a dying patient upon an operating table. A dying world beyond saving, it’s now racing heart undoubtedly on the verge of expiring. And it was all his fault for daring to think such blasphemous thoughts!

A terrified Sufi turned without permission and bolted in the opposite direction. Hamad urged on Sufi’s sensible, instinctive response. They were now in a desperate race against a wrathful desert sandstorm the likes of which Hamad had never before encountered, let alone imagined. He was sure the Pyramids would weather the storm, but, like the pharaohs, he did not personally stand a chance against such an onslaught of Nature. Still, you can hardly blame a Bedouin (or his camel) for trying…

Transcript: OSCN24 Evening News

(Online Satellite Communications Network – Beamed Live

via Skyroscope)

Cairo. 4 a.m. The perpetual city went dark and eerily silent as all power failed. It was not just an electricity power grid failure, but also all battery sources. Suspicions are high the event may have been the trial of an experimental EMP weapon.

EMP stands for electromagnetic pulse. An event that disables all electrical devices in a proscribed area. It’s an effect that is most commonly associated with the detonation of a nuclear bomb. Though there is no evidence of a nuclear device being detonated here.

Shortly after the blackout occurred, a major sandstorm blanketed the Pyramids and Cairo. Reports claim terrifying flashes of red lightning permeated the choking cloud of sand.

When the storm abated, it was discovered the Menkaure Pyramid, smallest of the famous trio of structures, had been largely destroyed, leaving behind a crater within the remaining lower levels of granite stonework. The lesser-known pharaoh, said to be the most benevolent and just of all pharaohs was not fortunate enough to have had his Pyramid properly constructed. Only the lower levels had been made from sturdier granite, as opposed to the limestone creation of the larger Pyramids. The higher levels were completed using a form of mud brick. That it survived on its own for so long has amazed many. Such longevity, however, has come to an abrupt end.

It is assumed the intent was to harm the Egyptian tourism economy, but it seems likely to fail. As power is restored, the curious are flooding into Cairo to sate their astonishment at this puzzling, if troubling, turn of events.

As reported in the popular magazine of supernatural ephemera:

THE PROPHETEER

(Motto: There are no such things as coincidences, but there are certainly conspiracies.)

ALIENS RETURN TO DEMOLISH THE PYRAMIDS THEY HELPED BUILD!

Is this a sign of The End? Have the aliens that helped humanity achieve civilization given up on us ever capitalising on their special gift to us?

Dubbed the strangest terrorist attack in history, authorities would play down the magnitude of what has happened in Egypt as simple human vandalism. As Islamic payback for continued political turmoil with secularists demanding democracy in Egypt.

Could underfunded, narrowminded rebels really gain access to potentially experimental technology such as an EMP weapon? A weapon capable of producing the widespread electrical power blackout that paralysed Cairo in the early hours of January 17?

What of the curious pattern of repeated seismic pulses that preceded the vast sandstorm that smothered the region? (A detail suspiciously unreported in the mainstream media.)

What of the red lightning that destroyed the Menkaure Pyramid? Laser technology?

EMP weaponry. Laser weaponry. Prospects far more sophisticated than we could expect from even the most advanced Super Powers. Dare we conclude this is beyond humanity?

February 8

The better part of a month later (though it’s technically only an eight-hour bus ride from Cairo), Fate decided to make its next unannounced visit to the slopes of Mt Sinai. The impending incident would share a surprising number of similarities with the Giza disaster. Outside the obvious, those similarities would include Moses, Bedouins and Australian exports. Any deep significance will be left up to individual preference.

The Australian export in this instance was a radiologist and tourist by the name of Bruce Allen (not so named after any wartime hero forebear), who now found himself stumbling down a portion of rocky, uncharted terrain at Mt Sinai. It was near 4 a.m. according to his watch that miraculously survived the adventure in far better shape than he had himself. He half felt his way across the dusty rock surface that was dimly, almost romantically lit by a sky above that sparkled with starlight.

Bruce had become separated from his tour group many hours earlier due to a spectacular fall that took him decidedly off the beaten path. Bruised, battered, scraped and initially knocked unconscious by the ordeal, he appeared to have no fractured or broken bones. The pain was sufficient, though, he lamented not having an X-ray machine near at hand just to be certain.

He liked to think his friends and the trusty tour guides had spent time looking for him. Obviously to no avail. They likely had to abandon any search as night descended. So it was ultimately up to him to find his own way back. Bruce idly wondered if there might be a book in this. Many a mountaineer had capitalised on their calamitous misfortune (often as not due to their own stupidity) in the past. So why not him?

To think that his initial plan for his month-long vacation had simply been to go fishing. The events in Cairo had, however, made some of his likeminded religious work colleagues change his mind for him. So it was a veritable exodus of primarily nursing staff temporarily abandoned the patients at the Royal Adelaide Hospital in search of spiritual enlightenment. (Which, sadly, left many patients at the mercy of their doctors more so than usual.)

Since the world spanning news of the catastrophe broke, tourism in the Middle East had skyrocketed even as more and more locals looked to flee the myriad tyrants, dictators and extremists who dominated the region. Social commentators liked to point out that not since the Crusades had there been such an influx of Christians into a Muslim stronghold. Some commentators thought it only fair given the recent Muslim push into western countries either as refugees or immigrants. (Maybe Westerners and Arabs should just do a straight swap of countries and be done with it!)

Despite the viewpoints being expressed that kept the overabundance of media commentators in gainful employment, all that really mattered was the Act of God implication behind the Cairo event was attracting the spiritual in ever growing numbers to the Middle East. Thus, Bruce’s long anticipated fishing expedition was converted into an ersatz sabbatical during which he dutifully stopped by to gawp at the desecrated Pyramid as dictated by his friends.

Mt Sinai could not help but be added to the itinerary.

Their Sinai adventure began with being warmly welcomed at the village of St Catherine’s by the local Gebeliya Bedouins. They not only ran the village guesthouse, but conducted all the various hiking tours and served as extra protection at the nearby St Catherine’s Monastery.

St Catherine’s Monastery (a must on the tour) was unique in the religious world in that it had survived seventeen centuries without ever being destroyed by time, politics or religion. Astonishing in this part of the world. Therefore, it can be viewed as a living shrine to religious antiquity that had served Christian and Muslim ideologies concurrently throughout history.

Just before reaching St Catherine’s Monastery (open most days from early morning to midnight. Be sure to check local guides), they visited the Golden Calf. Bruce half expected it to be a café where he might enjoy a hearty breakfast before starting the trek. Or perhaps it might prove a modest monument like the Dog on the Tuckerbox back home in Australia. (Ah, that brought back fond memories of family vacations during childhood.)

But no, the Golden Calf was, surprisingly, a rock formation. Whether sculpted by man or erosion, it was hard to tell. The inherent colour of the rock allowed the abstract image of the calf to be considered golden. It left those with long ingrained memories of several movie incarnations of The Ten Commandments to reconsider the Biblical implications of how formerly enslaved Jews could have secured enough gold within their own midst and have the facilities to melt it all down and eventually cast a magnificent bovine statue that could so offend God.

Not a café, then, but a place that nonetheless provided philosophical sustenance…food for thought dare it be said?

Only beyond St Catherine’s Monastery did the true trek to the summit of Jebel Musa (Mt Sinai’s proper name) begin. The views all along their ascent were glorious if not specifically yielding the enlightenment so many had hoped, but sometimes the glory of Nature is sufficient to sate the soul. (I’m tempted to say just ask Hamad, but, well…no, you can’t.) Amongst the highlights were the Monastery of Forty Martyrs and the Rock of Moses. (Thereby comprehensively completing our tally of common denominators with the events at Giza.) All marvellous destinations worthy of recording for posterity and posting on Facebook to brag to the world.

Unfortunately for Bruce, he had lost his camera in the fall. However, as the optimists in our midst would be quick to point out, he’ll always have his memories. Having worked in the medical field for as long as he had, dealing with many a patient suffering from Alzheimer’s or dementia, Bruce would likely challenge that assertion.

At long last Bruce found a walking track and was grateful to finally dispense with the otherwise weather-beaten terrain. Now all he had to do was follow the track as it descended. Salvation soon hove into view with the appearance of St Catherine’s Monastery. He winced at the idea of having covered so much of the distance in the fall itself, but was otherwise pleased to be so close to safety.

Bruce took his time traversing the remaining distance, covering it with care despite the enticing nearness of his destination. How cruel Fate would be if all he was ultimately remembered for was his stupidity in rushing the final distance, tripping and finishing himself off with carelessness at the last hurdle.

Arriving at the gateway, Bruce was suspicious, but not ungrateful to find it wide open. Well past visiting hours, he nonetheless ventured onto the monastery grounds and approached the open door which beckoned to him with the warm glow of flickering lamplight. The flow of adrenaline that had kept him going all this time finally abated and let his untold aches and pains now dominate the conversation within his body. He staggered forward, crossing the threshold with an immense sense of relief.

A feeling banished in a chilling instant by the discovery of the grisly scene before him. Headless, handless corpses littered the floor. No heads or hands anywhere to be seen. His first thought naturally turned to Muslim extremists, the news media’s favourite villains for some years now. He hoped it didn’t mean the long considered loyal and friendly Bedouins had gone rogue.

Then, somewhere in the back of the practical side of his brain, Bruce wondered if whoever committed this atrocity was still in the building. Or had his unfortunate accident ultimately spared him from being amongst the victims of this barbarous rage of Islamic terrorists?

What he had assumed was simply his own heart beating loudly in his chest due to shock, Bruce soon realised was a vibration that also coursed through the floor. More than ever before did he now regret giving up even one day’s opportunity to go fishing.

Transcript: OSCN24 Evening News

In a chilling replay of last month’s bizarre attack on the Menkaure Pyramid in Egypt, now Mt Sinai has been reduced to rubble in another 4 a.m. assault. Again preceded by a signature seismic rippling and enveloping sandstorm, this toppling of a sacred site has had a far deadlier result.

The apparent focal point of the attack, the seventeen centuries old St Catherine’s Monastery, located at the base of Mt Sinai, has been buried. A place of worship for both Christians and Muslims, the death toll will be high as the extent of the disaster includes much of the surrounding village. Many locals as well as tourists will have perished. Identities of the tourists are still being determined and families around the world will have an agonising wait to find out if loved ones are amongst the dead.

Speculation is rife the monastery was the target after the discovery that a religious cult found massacred in Egypt may also have served as a precursor to the Menkaure attack. That such an elaborate method of attack would be utilised to kill such a small number of religious practitioners does defy the logic of analysts trying to unravel the mystery.

Anyone with holiday bookings to the area should consult their travel agents about refunds.

Excerpt from: THE PROPHETEER

IF GOD SPEAKS ATOP A MOUNTAIN, BUT NO ONE IS THERE TO HEAR HIM,

DOES HE ACTUALLY SAY ANYTHING?

Is Judgment Day approaching? Have the Ten Commandments been ignored by too many for too long? That a disaster of biblical proportions has been visited upon one of the world’s most sacred locations would certainly suggest so.

Billions will be saying their prayers in earnest from now on seeking God’s good grace.

Should we now be focused on determining if the Anti-Christ has been let loose upon the world? (There are so many candidates!) Should we not also be looking to see if a new Messiah walks among us? (Alas, so few candidates come to mind.)

And, as a final thought, here is a quote from a certain famous religious text:

"And, behold, a great and strong wind rending the mountains,

and crushing the rocks before the Lord; but the Lord was not in the wind;

and after the wind an earthquake; but the Lord was not in the earthquake;

and after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire…"

If not the Lord, then who or what?

After Dinner Hint

February 10: Halig’s Chattel, Australia

Two days and half a world away there occurred an event of no newsworthiness whatsoever. (Even if it had such significance, it would have had a difficult time punching through the almost wall to wall coverage of the Mt Sinai event, which in itself had failed to completely replace all media scrutiny of the Giza incident.) The occasion was as opposite in scale as one could imagine. Innocuous in the extreme is how it might best be described. Just as well for all concerned.

There were, however, connections to be made with the world-shaking events as there had been connections between the two events themselves. Arguably the connections could be labelled tenuous, but still they existed.

The Australian connection was most obvious in this instance for this most innocuous of events took place in the small resort town of the improbably named Halig’s Chattel. It is likely more Australians were aware of the camel trade to the Middle East, or even the Royal Adelaide Hospital than would ever have heard of Halig’s Chattel.

There might be a connection to Moses, but establishing that link, even if it was to occur to one of the two people about to have dinner, would have required the most lateral of thinking. And, unless you are inclined to argue we humans are all related by our DNA and are not in any way divided by this ridiculous notion of ethnic diversity, then there were no connections to be found with Bedouin Arabs of any tribe.

As for seismic matters, this day would not be witness to any physical quakes, but rather a metaphorical one. Even at that, it would only prove to be a slight tremor. One that a certain Dr Laura Prentiss would not recognise, not even in retrospect, as a prelude to the upheaval that would soon engulf her life.

Though on a rostered day off, Laura was still smartly dressed in her familiar workday attire of conservative jacket, blouse and skirt having been summoned to her employer’s home for dinner. She alighted from the limousine that had finally arrived at the opulent two storey abode that dated from the early 20th Century.

Thank you, Patrick, she graciously acknowledged the chauffeur who opened the door for her.

My pleasure, Dr Prentiss, he was sure to respond with dignified aplomb. Formality trumped familiarity, as it always did when transporting Laura. The temptation in him was great to one day make an overture towards Laura, but her highly reserved demeanour was discouragement enough.

Despite her entrancing good looks, she was as antithetical to the normally uninhibited hierarchical types he normally drove about the region. Though there were curious rumours that circulated about Laura, details of which he had been unable to ascertain, which made her appear all the more intriguing. Either way, he had also been warned against doing anything more than daydream by his primary employer.

Patrick shut the passenger door on the limousine as Laura took the path towards the dwelling’s front door. He returned to the driver’s side of the vehicle and watched Laura ascend the three steps to the porch and ring the doorbell. As she did not appear inclined to look back at him (a guy could hope), he settled back in the driver’s seat and drove off.

Laura spared a glance for the departing limousine, feeling relief at finally being alone. The opening of the front door dispelled her moment of calm, forcing her to confront a bow-tied man in a tailored suit and sporting white gloves. Despite his antiquated attire that clearly identified his position as butler, he struck Laura as surprisingly young for the job. (A preference of her employer, perhaps?) There was a strong suggestion of an athletic figure beneath the clothing that led Laura to imagine the man probably led some swashbuckling double life.

The butler produced a genuine smile of surprise at discovering so enchanting a visitor and bade her to enter the residence with a graceful sweep of his arm.

Entering the house, Laura felt she was stepping back even further in time, to an era that would have predated the building itself. Passing beneath the bejewelled chandelier of the foyer, she followed the butler into the corridor to the right of the stairs. She had minimal time to admire the paintings of undeniable quality and the bookcases filled with valuable antiques more so than books. Though clearly built during the town’s early days of prosperity, Laura wondered if the fabulous home had been passed down to her employer through inheritance, or purchased with personally accumulated wealth.

The grandfather clock chimed seven as she was led past it and escorted into the dining room.

Her hostess, perhaps thirty or so years her senior and still possessing an enviable elegance, sat at the far end of the dining table. Ornately carved, the table was a modest affair having only one seat at either end and two seats either side. A place for Laura had been set at the opposite end of the table from her employer.

Ah, good evening, Laura, Evelyn greeted her guest with an unexpected hint of warmth in her voice that put a thaw into her normally frosty, no nonsense façade.

Good evening, Evelyn, Laura diplomatically responded. Not that she had much choice. She had yet to discover her employer’s surname, even after all these disconcerting months. It’s an honour to have been invited here. Laura was under no illusions about that. An invitation to Evelyn’s home was rarer than a solar eclipse according to everyone who worked for her.

The butler guided Laura into her chair. She thanked him for being so attentive.

And you’re right on time, my dear. I do admire that.

Well, as much as I do value being punctual, it really is down to Patrick’s being so prompt, I couldn’t fail to be on time.

Evelyn readily smiled at the admission, though her eyes still betrayed an almost feline fascination with bite sized rodents. Ah, giving credit where credit is due. A rare character trait these days, Evelyn further complimented her. Acknowledging her butler as if rewarding him for his patience, she instructed, Gareth, you may now serve the first course.

Gareth exited by the far door.

Alone at last, I’m almost tempted to apologise for Rebecca’s behaviour the other night, but as you are probably aware, or should have noticed before now, I never apologise, professed Evelyn, clearly bemused by her own observation. A rule of thumb of mine I imagine makes you feel somewhat conflicted. In my world, I never apologise if I cause offence. I’m content to study the other person’s reaction. That’s when you find the greatest insight into them.

And what have you managed to learn about me in all this time? Laura wryly berated Evelyn for what might have been an enduring problem. Tact prevented her from enquiring whether Evelyn had compiled an encyclopaedic knowledge of everyone she had ever met.

I’ve learnt that you most certainly do take offence, quite often to heart with a slings and arrows intensity. Yet you surprise me by how well you take it all in your stride with such minimal fuss. Or maybe you just hide it well, suppressing it and letting it fester, Evelyn submitted her critique that was as damning as it was admiring. Two could play this game and not only could Evelyn play it better, she always played to win. (And invariably did.)

Laura gave the observation its due consideration as Gareth reappeared carrying a tray. He set a bowl of steaming, aromatic soup before Evelyn along with a plate of thickly sliced homemade bread, before delivering the same to Laura. Gareth then filled a glass with water for each of the women from the carafe sitting on the table. Laura again thanked him for his service.

Evelyn took note of Laura’s consistent display of manners. Most of the very few guests she entertained here rarely ever noticed, let alone acknowledged the staff. Not that she sought to ingratiate herself with Laura, but Evelyn was prepared to play along with such embroidered civility. Yes, thank you, Gareth, she added.

Gareth gave a deferential bow of appreciation. Professionalism precluded him from displaying surprise at his employer’s unexpected largesse. He left the two women to their privacy.

Do start, Evelyn encouraged Laura.

There was a hearty simplicity to the meal that Laura considered too chunky to be called a soup, but she gratefully tucked into the chicken and corn concoction. She hesitated in pronouncing her initial impression of the meal due to a surprising taste she could not immediately identify that infused the bowl’s contents.

It’s saffron, Evelyn revealed the detail she suspected eluded Laura.

Ah, Laura conceded that was indeed what puzzled her palate. It’s very good, she formally gave her seal of approval.

Good, I’m glad you like it. Evelyn allowed them the chance to consume the soup while it was at its optimum temperature, but also to determine if Laura might set the agenda on any further conversation. Evidently not, Evelyn realised. Laura clearly had no desire to fill the lengthening silence as most people would. I’m beginning to wonder which of us is going to want to be put out of our misery first. I’m also beginning to think you might enjoy misery more than I, confessed Evelyn, bemused as much as perturbed.

Your home, your rules. As your guest, it’s my responsibility to adapt and be as respectful as possible, Laura explained her reticence.

As my guest, I’d like for you to be comfortable enough to speak your mind in a way you’d be unable or less inclined to do so at work.

All right, Laura conceded, but I can’t help but feel as you’ve invited me here, quite unexpectedly, that you must have more on your mind than I do on mine.

Shrewd girl, Evelyn thought to herself. "Don’t you think I might be concerned about what exactly is on your mind?" Evelyn attempted to sound charitable.

By seeking to soothe and massage away any possibly awkward issues with such a generous display of concern in so controlled an environment? Laura challenged Evelyn’s sincerity.

Everything I do is done within an environment I can control, Laura. I’d be foolish to have it any other way. You are at least being given a platform. A rare privilege in my world. You’d be advised to use the opportunity wisely, Evelyn lent a harsh, unforgiving tone to the offer.

Laura ruefully contemplated her position, having nothing else to do since finishing her soup.

Conventional wisdom dictated one should keep their friends close and their enemies closer. Laura was neither, but she had the makings of a valuable asset. It was in Evelyn’s best interests to quell her killer instincts. It’s okay, Laura. There’s no need for either of us to rush, or for me to push. Force of habit.

That might almost be construed as an apology, Laura warned.

Well it might, though I would strenuously deny it in a court of law, Evelyn either took a satirical jab at herself, or established a genuine legal defence. She was practical that way. Perhaps we both need a moment to reflect. She rang the ornamental bell that sat on the corner of the table.

Gareth instantaneously reappeared. Laura wondered if he had been standing at the kitchen door all along, listening in on the conversation. He collected the plates and bowls.

You may serve the next course, instructed Evelyn.

Yes, ma’am, he promised and retreated to the kitchen post haste.

Realising the wait would be brief, neither woman attempted to progress the conversation.

Gareth returned with the main course, half a lobster crowned with melted cheese, its outer curve framed by a leafy salad. Collecting a bottle of white wine from a sideboard, he filled a glass for each woman. Receiving thanks from them both, he again vacated the dining room

Lobster thermidor, Evelyn explained to what appeared a hesitant Laura.

I realise, Laura informed her in return. "I was just thinking how…rich it must be."

Ah, worried how the calories might impact upon that faultless figure of yours you so fastidiously conceal beneath those sensible clothes? Evelyn asked as if chastising Laura for squandering such a God given gift. I would hardly think it a problem, what with my keeping you busy with all those extracurricular physical training courses I’ve assigned you. You’ll soon burn through any of tonight’s indulgences. Which brings me back to a point I was trying to make earlier. Rebecca told me more than you’d be comfortable with, but was tactful in the way she told me.

Small mercies, declared an embattled Laura.

It seems to me you’re quick to accept shame and guilt when you have every right to be angry at the world. It’s another intriguing example of the immense restraint you always show.

We all have to take responsibility for our own actions. We also have to know when to cut our losses when we realise, we’ve made the wrong decision, Laura offered up a wisdom she thought more befitting of Evelyn’s years and experience even though her elder seemed prone to professing otherwise.

So no wanting to make an official complaint? Evelyn finally revealed her main concern.

Laura casually dismissed the misadventure with a shake of her head and that she was prepared to chalk it all up to experience. Rebecca had questions she wanted answered. Maybe I did, too, but she clearly had more questions than I was prepared to answer.

That’s a very mature way of looking at it my dear. I’m pleased, Evelyn admitted with no small sense of relief. "Apropos this notion of never making apologies, it should be noted I consider Rebecca one of my most gifted…students. I think you know what I mean by that. So her behaviour is in many respects an extension of my own. Therefore, I doubt I would have done things any differently had I been in the same position at the same age.

As curious as I am as to how you might go on interacting with Rebecca, I’m thinking it high time I move you on from the Psi-Gon. The work you’ve done there has been exemplary. It was certainly the toughest task possible that I could have assigned anyone in a bid to test them. So I’m willing to offer you a full-time position at the Department. It will be a little less confronting than the Psi-Gon, if no less esoteric. As you know, I’ve been without a full-time counsellor, a wrangler of sorts, for the decidedly mismatched band of consultants I have at my disposal.

Having a root canal every day without anaesthesia would be less confronting than working at the Psi-Gon, Laura revealed a biting wit worthy of Evelyn herself. Waterboarding or picnicking with paedophiles would be less confronting, she revised upwards the Psi-Gon’s inherent shock value. To only work at the Department would be like holidaying at a day spa.

Evelyn could not suppress a smile at Laura’s vehemently caustic response. Well, she had encouraged the girl to vent some anger…

If I might? Laura sought permission to continue speaking her mind. Even though a standing offer had been made, Laura still felt it wise to seek permission on a case-by-case basis.

Please, Evelyn encouraged with the wave of a utensil wielding hand and took the welcome respite to feast on her own serve of lobster thermidor.

You need to increase the rotation of staff at the Psi-Gon. The prisoners held there are so psychologically damaged as to be beyond rehabilitation. Not that that’s the aim of the place, Laura declared with self-righteous disdain, but the deleterious effect they have on the staff is another matter entirely. The generous half week rosters have a moderating effect, but the cumulative effect of repeated exposure, no matter how small the dose, is still doing terrible psychological damage even to the best trained and most inured of minds you can find.

Evelyn nodded thoughtfully at Laura’s impassioned plea. I’ve pondered that myself from time to time. The problem I face with staffing the Psi-Gon, however, is not only in finding those capable of working there, but they must also prove trustworthy enough to maintain the necessary level of discretion as regards to the Psi-Gon’s very existence. Evelyn wished, but doubted Laura would appreciate how exalted a position she held by simply being included in such a conversation.

Laura gave the merest shrug of her shoulders. She understood, but did not sympathise with Evelyn’s dilemma. So long as you’re aware of the situation. How you reconcile the logistics of the operation with your conscience is up to you. Laura suspected she may have landed a blow on Evelyn’s psyche and decided not to push any further. She took a much-needed sip of wine before looking to finish her meal.

Evelyn continued eating, absorbing Laura’s words in equal measure. Even if the tone had been combative, what her young employee had said still possessed an uncomfortable truth that needed to be faced.

You’re right about the Psi-Gon, but wrong about the Department, Evelyn at long last conceded. Her best option was simply to change the subject. Indeed, it prompted her to finally get to the point. "You’ve met a fair representation of the Department’s consultants, but you’ve yet to accompany any of them on their sojourns into the unknown. Which I will expect you to do. It won’t prove to be the visit to the day spa you envisage. And all that will only serve as a prelude to learning about the Department’s true function. While I’ve never broached the subject with you personally, I’m sure those consultants you’ve so far had a chance to interview have no doubt whispered to you in absolute hushed tones the name Edward Talbot."

The admission glinted fearfully in Laura’s eyes, her body tensing as if she was an accused terrorist awaiting to undergo torture to surrender some vital piece of information.

"The Department revolves around him. To both serve and study him. The information our eclectic band of consultants accumulate primarily serve Edward’s interests and needs. The information Edward yields us is generally of the more confronting variety. Sometimes Psi-Gon level confronting.

"Whilst I would prefer a greater say in the consultants we hire; Edward has the unnerving habit of gathering around him rather more unpredictable and unlikely specialists whom I don’t think are worthy of joining him in the field. He has two such consultants with him even as we speak.

The first is Elsa, whom of course you know so well… Evelyn watched with fascination, perhaps even a little sadistic delight, as the grimace flashed almost subliminally across Laura’s face. Now there’s someone I’d happily post full time at the Psi-Gon, she idly mused. The second is Professor Robert Morgan, whom you did briefly have the misfortune of meeting a few months back. I’m sure you remember him. Few would forget, Evelyn made no attempt to disguise her disdain.

Recent world events have captured Edward’s attention… Evelyn almost laughed, but caught herself in time. "Well, I’m certain recent events have