Paradox, the Norm: The First and Last King Series Book Ii the Journals of Davin Alastair

By Jean Harris Anderson

We are pressing beyond the range of human information at blazing speed, and in so doing, we are entering a realm were quite unprepared for. When this books essayist announces a celestial being from a different dominion has arrived to equip us with permission to eat of the fruit, allowing us to become all-knowledgeable, and to offer immortality, everyone is eager, of course. The extraterrestrial alien values the spirit nature as much as we value our flesh, and he prizes each, for he transcends knowledge of those entities, a character gushes. But we shall lose command of our individual freedoms if we forfeit our wits to another, because intelligence is more than gathering lots of data. Filtering information takes time and work to transform into wisdom. The race to control artificial intelligence has made each person a database for a search engine, and our species has mixed with machine. Weve become unknowingly programmed without an ethical compass while some in charge have questionable motives and are involved in moral turpitude. The result? As one character laments, We must break the very laws that make us civil.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: May 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9781973627203

Jean Harris Anderson

JEAN HARRIS ANDERSON, a child at heart, is described as a prophetic novelist. Cognizant of the current death culture, and knowledgeable of Divine will, she writes of a future world where there is no innocence, when there will be no children and the human race is an endangered species. Her identification with Christianity, since childhood, has influenced her outlook and endowed a specialism as visual artist and writer, and the work of Christian apologists have served as inspiration. While she’s responsive to scripture she has ease in using allegory, symbolism, and irony in this speculative fiction narrative. www.firstandlastking.com

Book preview

PART

ONE

ESSAY ONE

THE TRANSMUTATION

transmute - to change from one form,

species, condition, nature.

The roadhouse where Mcambi sat was a saloon by night and a grill in the daylight hours. It still had a reputation from its early history as a brothel - for the illegal and the disreputable and infamous. And because the café still cashed any check from any port and exchanged all international currency, it had retained that suspicion.

It smelled of orange bergamot tea, stale beer, and hotcakes from the grill. It was noisy, generally cheerful, and offered a humid and warm atmosphere that invited those disembarking from a variety of seafaring vessels in need of taking cover from the cold, brisk winds.

The well-trod path laid out straight to the front door; it had been there from the beginning, when the building was conceived, built up from a base of crushed shells, replaced with a mix of whole, colored sea shells from time to time to make it pretty, and packed in sand. Lots of local, common spiral shells, the ones of many chambers - mollusk, and nautilus shells, and there were oyster and clam shells, probably mussel, too, in the mix. Tossed in were the garden-variety snail shells - as brown as the dirt from which they came, snail shells from nearby fields where succulent strawberries once grew.

The grimy wooden building had smeared windows with dried specks of salt water and water-bird droppings. Glancing through the thin pane, Mcambi saw that a lean bird-woman stood outside the nearby window, and he could hear only a little of the stories she was swapping with other female aviators, fighting the wind to keep her hat on and maintain balance, just like the pigeons, holding onto the pier fencing. Sailors strained ahead with their packs, bypassing the opportunity to linger. Pelicans scooped up fish, while Mcambi slowly took bites of comfort food, looking out and about, thinking and reading, all of which had become his rhythm that morning. His eyes watered as he blinked and strained to focus them, as they were still sensitive to light, so he sat in a dark corner of a small booth, trying to read and exercise his eyes slowly.

"The redness of human blood, intermixed with the viridescent green of the alien’s blood, against the death pall of his alabaster skin, was a reminder to all of the scarlet sins of the nations.

"He broke the natural, physical laws by forfeiting the blood of life, yet his soul lingered; he was accorded justly that in becoming new law, the alien became the new man.

His spirit hovered - accustomed to transmigration - appearing in so much a different form.

Here Mcambi looked up to rest his eyes from the newsprint, toying with the tiny spiral shells that had been laced onto dental floss lengths to create bracelets, and hung from push pins on the wall, next to the booth’s jukebox. 4 Sail, Enquire at Bar, the tag misspelled. He looked at the larger gray spiral shell that latched the two ends to complete the circle of the souvenir jewelry, and then his eyes glanced back at the newspaper picture of the alien’s ship; they were a match, he thought - both spiraling inward. He held onto the shell, not as a naturalist admiring the petite thing, but thinking of the species, and what kind of thing would live in it.

He went on reading, though the piece lacked appeal, but with boredom he would dig to see if there was anything he could hold onto. "Though lifeless, conveying through the air to the on-lookers - with their worn bodies, knowing the tugging of guilt and death at their own frame - the inaudible words promised to each a new appearance, just as they would now witness with his new body.

Shorn of his life, the degradation of the alien’s death was vindicated by an event that was beheld worldwide. Death was cheated for all, when so unexpected a transfiguration seized the brave man who had interceded on behalf of the alien: the prophet, Numa Pompilius, the authority in religious circles, with his ability of extrasensory perception, stepped forward beside the bodies. Here the newspaper was torn, the account lost.

Mcambi put the paper down, and looked out the window. The wind had picked up; the bird ladies took off across the avenue, their neck scarves levitated like wings in flight. Beyond were amusement parks and store fronts, all of world-chains, and all familiar; he could be in a lot of places - they were identical, and they had stood the test of time, through recession, depression, and dire straits. In their civilization everything was fabricated, artificial, and standardized. It was a wonder the wooden building he was in hadn’t been condemned.

He picked up another issue. Was there one objective journalist to be found? More an invasion of activist-writers, he thought, all writing in unison. Jumping from one article to another, he wondered what the wholesale intention was. Who was the master-mind? Mcambi concealed his face with the pages while looking at the indistinct photographs of the prophet named Numa.

Mcambi noted how gray his fingers had become from the ink of the newspaper, as gray as the shell he was still holding. He glanced back at the gray image of Numa, with his moody expression. Actually, Numa appeared to be void of emotions.

The prophet was from their globe, out of their earth, not from heaven, so he was easier to look at. According to all that was written about him, his behavior was moderate, unlike the warring peoples of his planet. Therefore, thought of as gentle, one was compelled to listen to his deep voice, the full, resonant voice of a guardian dragon, a fiercely watchful chaperon, one of the news accounts stated.

Numa, pictured with a headdress of two horns, wearing a shearling sheepskin vest, actually didn’t look too unusual in their present society, Mcambi thought - just another party-animal. He was not too old, and not too young to be seen in places to be seen. And the shade of his apparel, gunmetal gray, had a royal purple tinge to it, which offered an air of royal blood.

Inbreeding came to mind, genetic markers, mutations, blood relatives…

But Numa was a minor prophet, had not been known beyond his circles of interest, and lacked greater notoriety. Not until the time of annunciation, and the alien’s first appearance descending in a glorious chariot, in the shape of a great chambered nautilus - both a submarine and space shuttle - was Numa noticed. Then Numa’s name was mentioned regularly in association with this description of the chariot-ship, so technically advanced. It was Numa who announced that the alien had arrived by means of universal bidding - indirectly, the supernatural manifesting from the heavens, sending a diplomat and messenger of tidings, was by Numa’s invitation. Could it be just a bunch of gobbledygook?

Why had Numa, in terms of identifying the alien, not been more specific?

In fact, not until after the alien’s spectacular deliverance was there a confirmation of sightings of objects long recorded, that might be of relevance now. Of miraculous visions so many times dismissed in the annals of history, of little green men with large, oval eyes, and of stories of abductions - these were things that now gained legitimacy. This became the focus, confirming what had previously been suspected.

Detail of the alien’s description was rarely mentioned.

While Numa, the prophet, was just one of the sea of humankind, he was able to heal the alien’s wound; the newspaper stated it factually. It was Numa’s knowledge as an amateur aeronautics and space historian that gave testimony to super-human contact, though evidence remained concealed. He was mesmerizing the nations, along with the story of the alien. The sub-title read, The animal was, and is not, and yet is to come.

What was it about that gray figure that made his appearance far more ominous and disturbingly foreboding to Mcambi? Welcomed by others, his skillful tidings seemed too herculean for his human frailty, especially next to the formidable physique and figurehead of the dead alien. Mcambi searched for the place in the news where it would describe the actual miracle. That page of the paper was missing.

Mcambi hooked the bracelet back in place on the push pin with the others. He dunked a paper napkin into his water glass, then dabbed at his gray hands with the moistened paper. Pacing himself between bites of food, he looked for anyone suspicious, anyone who might be searching for him. Highly unlikely, he told himself, for he knew Feldman’s assignment would take him high into the mountains. He and Feldman operated in a surreptitious field, but he was fully aware they all lived in a society clandestinely controlled.

Mcambi and Feldman were friends and military experts who were now matched against each other. Personally entrapped by systems and orders that could quickly change, and did, with each new regime. And both men independently sought a way to learn the ethical truth of what they were defending. Classified data, too sensitive even for the authorized, now had safeguards, restricting commands and stopping preliminary inquiries of counterintelligence, often limiting a successful mission.

It was by Mcambi’s encounter with a fellow dissident that he learned experiments of time and dimensional alterations were taking place on base. Work had been ongoing even before millions of people suddenly and cataclysmically disappeared from the face of their planet. An upheaval, that is, for those left behind. What were the possibilities the event had been planned? A population lifted up, a colony for human migration, the colonization inhabiting another world…which would mean, Mcambi thought, it was of a type of individual teleportation, and far more advanced than even that which the alien arrived by. Impossible, the naysayers believed. What then, was the answer for such a disappearance? Social, political, and scientific philosophers had been theorizing, and now religious speculative thinking was added to the mix.

Yes, he knew what directives were handed to Feldman, at least where they were to be carried out. Mcambi and his team had been present in strategy sessions that divulged more than intended, and with that data Mcambi drew a logical conclusion - it wasn’t space warfare the military was planning, given the positioning of a satellite receiver. Though his presumption was not the same as his team members - they were convinced it was interplanetary encounters they were preparing for, maybe preventing a stray planet from colliding with theirs, or intercepting asteroids and small meteoroids before impact. Lots of shooting stars of late, they were told, and they all nodded. Didn’t seem to be the serious stuff they were trained to encounter, however.

No, it wasn’t going to be an interplanetary war; it would be a massive war on their own planet involving secret technology. Even if there was no mystery, military movements throughout the east were being watched closely, knowing their entire area would be drawn in. And all the nations would eventually have to choose sides. Mcambi’s conclusion was based on what he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt - the mariner’s needle, code language, whether real or symbolic - was pointed directly at the ancient land of Ariel.

But the specific command, Mcambi did not know, nor was he aware how much the mission had expanded, and would even further, and he did not think the experimental trials Feldman would be undergoing would be dangerous - once Feldman was armed with knowledge.

Interpersonal psychodynamics, like the unconscious - with a theory of breaking out of repeated cycles - the temporal loop, it was called, was just a part of the assignment, Feldman had told Mcambi. Just pointless head games. He categorized the study the same way as in any of those social quasi-experimental mandates, such as peace-keeping missions in a dangerous territory, unarmed - accepted, employed, and in lock-step. Yes, they both knew there was an element of danger. There always would be.

He stirred his coffee, blending cream with his last conversation with Feldman; it all came to memory:

As a special forces officer, I led my team, planning on future situations in the east, the mission not yet outlined specifically, though I knew from the strategy sessions that the land of Ariel was in focal-plane, if not the eventual target of many countries. This was obvious from the maps alone. Duty would be responding to terrorists, we were told. All leaders were to inform their team members to prepare for action - to plan for fast strikes - eliminating the enemy, no prisoners; our job was to acquire field information in advance of the full-military operation.

On that particular day, being with Feldman the last time, we received the first order; our teams were to train forces to recover territories lost. No one knew just when we were expected to actually assist these soldiers, nor did we know what lands would be taken. All that would come in due time. I had memorized the geopolitical map, and I knew full well we were to join other border countries - Turchia, most of the Ottoman Empire, instrumental to the plan - including Syria. That’s when I made my mind up, when I knew I couldn’t do what others had done to my own village - level it to the ground.

All morning we were swinging on ropes, hanging from cliffs, jumping off bridges, and swimming the channels - trusting one another with our lives. And then we met with the new mustangs; they were the battlefield best, and they would have to get through their final day of training with us - before they’d be declared commissioned officers. Finally, parched and hungry, bruised and burned without complaint, we knew the stuff these men and women were made of. We stayed with the NCOs until day’s end, and when they turned in under the stars in frigid temperatures Feldman and I remained talking.

We eventually all got shut eye, but first I had to tell Feldman what the chaplain said to me the previous night. The chaplain was often with the soldiers, giving support, offering an encouraging word, and lending an ear, especially before a grueling day of special training - or combat. The chaplain was the one to impart information to me, data I still find perplexing - because it was about quantum physics, something neither of us knew anything about. The older theory of time symmetry, dealing with identical physical laws, was being replaced with a new concept - retrocausality - to be exact; that was a theory being worked on at the base, the chaplain indicated. Retrocausality proposed that the present and even the future could effect the past and select what happens before anyone chooses.

Sounds like free-will is being removed, the chaplain, easing into the conversation, said to me.

Possibilities and probabilities - that’s what you’re talking about?

"Or changing results." There was a stirring quiet, I recall. Like the guy was praying.

Changing the pathway we’re on, or were headed? The outcomes - really? I asked him, straining.

He nodded. And if that’s possible, then nothing will be reliably the same, nothing will be definite.

Weird science, indeed. You think it’s possible, Padre? He was everyone’s Holy Joe, one we all trusted, no matter the faith or folly, and a lot of us at times lacked good sense, and sought his counsel as our sky pilot.

The scientists believe their theory rests in reality. Not as spongy as it first looks. It would be tidy to formulate one’s plan of action, or even alter…

"A do-over, as we always wanted as kids. Reworking history, then? Changing definitions. Going back, reformulating, is what you’re saying?"

"And creating a new quantum frontier. It’s been a decade that teleportation of a photon from here to an orbiting satellite was successfully carried out, and several times since. Sharing the same wave, the photons have proven to come together at one time and place, and the exact identity is shared, and when they go their separate ways they have become one and the same; their futures, wherever they are will parallel in sameness. Sameness. What occurs to one will to the other. At least this is the closest to what has been told to me. Oh, I’m sure there could be little inconsistencies to mess up their plans. Like the fly in the ‘transmitter’ accompanying Professor Delambre, mixing to create a monster." We laughed at that fictional tale; at least we still could see humor in the subject.

So, they’ll soon be ready to beam us up, we laughed again, kind of. And our species is no longer limited to just our planet or solar system. You’re saying teleportation is very real. How soon?

"Well, they’re probably more focused on telecommunications, perhaps strategic missile defense; we’ll see. I hope for our friend’s sake a teleportation system is not in order."

"Friend."

Your closest. He cleared his voice. He should know all this. That was the clue - I needed to talk with Feldman. It’s the aspect of infinity that concerns me, actually. I don’t understand entanglement, in a scientific way, but I do understand the results of human entanglement with disease, despair and death, things we wouldn’t want to take with us into eternity.

I wasn’t keen about the spiritual stuff; that was his department. But I sure appreciated his concerns about Feldman. I decided I needed to talk straight, and right away. It was good that I had planned to speak with him immediately, as that was the last I saw Feldman.

It’s interesting stuff you’re talking about - taking the identity of the other. But we’re wading into frightening territory when my friend’s being used as a guinea pig.

In lowered voice the chaplain confided, "Feldman needs to be informed; I’m afraid he does not know all of his assignment. He must before another day passes." I knew at that point it was not just my duty as Feldman’s friend to tell him of this conversation, in as much detail as I could. Feldman was part of the advance guard, but I needed to make him see he should be extracted from such a shady call of duty as this. It all scared the living daylights out of me.

What we need are reliable telephones before we get involved in disappearing acts. I’ll see Feldman, rather than call him. Tomorrow we’ll be readying for deployment, though we’ve not yet been debriefed on our next mission or date. I looked over at the chaplain, with my last hope that something could be said about the geopolitical mess, a note that would keep me in place. He knew little of my own disposition, less of my personal history.

He looked me in the eyes and said, Thy rowers have brought thee into great waters: the east wind hath broken thee… The chaplain was not known to stutter, but he broke off the quote. An old verse from my days of seminary training, I suppose…yes, Ezekiel, from the 27th chapter. Odd that I should now require you to hear this.

It would be only days later when our world turned upside down with the news of the alien, and when I decided to desert. I must have shown my despondency in the chaplain’s forewarning, though that made little sense to me; it was the regrettable possibility of leaving all that I knew, especially forfeiting my friendship with Feldman. The chaplain revisited the subject of my friend in a way that could not be mistaken.

Teleportation has been successful in laboratories, but limited. This team is busy going beyond the use of a few photons, he stressed. Teleporting photons, even at long distance, from our planet to an object in orbit, is a far different ‘animal’ than using the molecules of flesh and bones. That’s when it really hit me - a live specimen, Feldman, had been selected for quantum teleportation. Was I crazy to think of something so futuristic? Padre ended on one of his typical ecclesiastical notes. "But even if they were to just stick to their original plan - that of telecommunication - we have pushed beyond the orderly world God has given us to manage here."

I tried to understand what he was saying as to quantum mechanics; it was both the human and spiritual aspects I couldn’t reason with. This secret the chaplain held, probably gained from a dying soldier - I could only guess, had a purpose. It was serious shiver, as we called something like this - the incomprehensible.

The last night I saw Feldman we were beyond tired, and I’m not sure, of the science of physicists, what Feldman took in. But of the shared conversation I had with the chaplain, I omitted nothing. Feldman knew I was serious. The one and only person the chaplain told me to share the information with was Feldman. It was to stop there. So I didn’t mince words. Feldman was the most important person in my life. And both the Padre and I took risks informing him. I told Feldman everything - and just what I thought about the deal. But was I convincing? Feldman wasn’t as discontented as I with the military. He was a bit disgruntled with his girl, but even that looked hopeful, while I was absolutely miserable with life in general, military in particular.

Mcambi’s thoughts were interrupted when a disagreeable couple entered the grill; the stocky woman was as wide as she was tall, was as forceful as an animal caught in a corner, and just as afraid, while the man was slender, sparse of hair, and had a sailor’s tanned, weathered skin. His gauntness had an element of fragility, but he carried himself with cautious grace. Obvious he was embarrassed over his situation, he offered feeble suggestions with his quavering hands in motion; she responded noisily, leaning and pounding her hand on the table. Their bitter quarreling, with his rejecting words, and her rough, physical gestures, suggested that a fistfight might possibly ensue, or so observed Mcambi, suppressing a grin.

Finally, they quieted. The waitress took their order, turned, rolled her eyes, chewed gum, and wrote on a little pad; then with a sardonic laugh she said to Mcambi, Married couples! The wedlock didn’t appear to be a happy one. Mcambi grunted with agreement, while Lana, the waitress, freshened his coffee. And Mcambi thought of a far different type of union - particles having relationships and altering the other’s behavior. Quantum teleportation. Could the alien have been transported in like manner? Who was he really? Mcambi sat uncomfortably, squirming, stirring his coffee, looking into space.

As the wife carried the stronger pledge to convert her wanton partner and his ungovernable beliefs, it became obvious that it was not his waywardness, but his objections to all the supposed miracles of the recent days when he was absent, that angered her. He refused to listen to her gibberish a minute longer, and felt obligated, he said, to inform her she was quite foolish to abandon in that short time all she had previously believed.

You’re acting like Henny Penny with her warnings that the sky was falling.

Well, something did come down from the sky, and all along the prophecies were there. You’ve never been interested in feelings or religion, the irritable woman stated, and because of your position, you’ll always be a chowder-head.

The outcome of such unrealistic expectations is bound to be disappointing, he offered.

Foolish man. Do you have no imagination at all?

"Imagination - you ask? There are too many peculiarities for the alien to be real. A lightning bug - that’s all; just a winged-beetle. It gives off a flicker - bioluminescence - which all fireflies have, to receive prey or partner."

What? Just what are you saying?

A short life, and short-attraction span. At best, a Lampyridae; a large one - I’ll admit that. But there is no explanation, no proof that any of this is lasting reality. Why, the craft has even disappeared. With boldness he continued, That brilliant object blinded everyone permanently, it seems, and I’m not going to be included in the party. Analytical thinking is needed here. Please, reflect on this.

"He is from the more advanced society, and you are an impediment to future doctrine." She hammered her fist, one last time on the table.

Snappish, the querulous woman proceeded to private remarks, to indicate that the practical and moral differences between them left her no alternative than to seek a divorce. Her dress in black garb from head to toe, seemed a foreknowledge of what was to come, as she screamed her feelings of his fate, browbeating him into his grave - she hoped.

To which he answered, with genial compassion, that he was relieved the theatrical production was at its end, that their union was at a terminus, saying no more. His language and behavior were those of a navigation officer who wore a distinguished uniform as a brave seaman.

When finally served, they quietly poked at their food. Their mouths were empty of words. Eating with your enemy was a problem, Mcambi knew.

Shuffling through a pile of trade magazines, Mcambi selected one focused on sea life - though he found himself scanning through a lot of columns advertising resort destinations, reading the endless schedules for fishing boats and dining cruises, and looking at the dreamy, colorful photos of diving ads. There was an article about human evolution and our sea-worthy ancestors, written by a paleoanthropologist, When We Lived in the Sea. From Green Algae Enzyme to a new deep-water crab with green eyes, they were all accompanied with clear, vibrant photographs or understandable graphs and with straightforward depictions. Mcambi had reason for staying in place and reading - he didn’t want to get noticed in the midst of commotion, which still hung in the air.

He even came across the missing news column about the alien topic, used for marking a reader’s spot. But even in reading this, the section and the column were both deficient of clear photos and reliable intelligence reports. Explicit details were absent; without specific information, it left only an illusion of the man who was now charged with carrying out the alien’s duties. As only an impression, his identity could be embraced differently in every region, ethnicity, and religion - just as details of the alien were limited, leaving that same mystical quality. Mcambi’s curiosity was as an investigator or good news reporter - out to get the story. And as a recon soldier, he saw cover-ups. He supposed he would need to have the imagination of the seaman’s wife to decipher just how the main-stream population in that seaport was accepting the story.

He scanned another column, hoping to satisfy his curiosity. The prophet’s incantations were not understandable, but people knew that what they were viewing could not be explained, anyway.

Well, there you go, Mcambi uttered. He did not appreciate anything that was not explainable. They did still possess laws of physics. Right?

He continued reading this explanation given by the prophet. "And so they adjusted their sight at the super-physical appearance, weaving a tale before them as the alien’s powers were transformed over to a human. The alien’s blood vessels became distended, and flashed like lightening until his body glowed. And upon his head was a name no one could read. He had the look of a leopard, the feet of a bear, the mouth of a lion. And everyone said, ‘who is like the animal? Who could make war against it?’ He appeared with seven heads with ten crowns of ten horns. And all of earth followed this happening with awe. It was as close to the definition of transfiguration as any modern description."

Whoa, thought Mcambi, his head pulsing. He needed to exercise; he was used to action, rarely sitting, but he made a sustained attempt to finish reading while the situation in the neighboring booth was apparently now under the seaman’s command and control.

The life of his spirit, an editorial piece stated, "that lay hostage in his dead other-world body recognized that the moment of opportunity had come by way of the prophet, whose invitation to become one of them was hailed a miracle. Physical life could be given him out of death! He selected, for the miraculous event, the body of the hero. The alien, it would seem, could fulfill himself through an inhabitant of the globe!

When he chose to carnify his spirit, he selected a body of strength, and one who had been closely scrutinized and well prepared, the prophet exerted. His alliance with Numa was as coordinated as if it was routine. In possessing a mortal body, the alien was in possession of something inferior to what was his own, and yet spectacular at the same time. The body was spiritless. The alien obliged the prophet, who would reanimate the dead hero’s body with his live spirit.

How this was done was still an area of doubt and discussion with some, like Mcambi. But the story of this extraterrestrial’s resurrection, along with the evidence in a photo of the resurrected hero, left no doubt to most that a miracle had been witnessed, and a tremendous testimony of a journey of death to life would impress all but the least, or so it would seem.

There were many in the port, contentious, ready to prop up their side of an argument. Provoking disputes and taunting, generally not seen within one’s peer group, became obvious, even amongst the diners at the tables and counter. There was uneasiness, as if people were hesitant to fully trust, wondering if some information could be misleading. But it hasn’t reached a point of fallaciousness, he heard someone tell another. If people were deceived, it was most cleverly done.

Mcambi examined the photo of the glass encasement protecting the alien’s sublime body. Light hit the covering, making the alien within glisten as a green serpent studded with stones of diamond and emerald, and he held pipes and instruments and tools of power that were of gold, sharply flashing. Mcambi looked away from this illusion, the bling triggered from his migraine vision.

The whole episode smacked of a hoax to Mcambi - a miracle from one of those tent-meetings, occupied by troubled and repentant souls. That a great leader could come forth in such a manner, from the calamity of death to an atoning reconciliation, seemed artificial. He believed in very little anymore, certainly not such spontaneity. He had worn the mask of a hundred different parts, just as in a movie, and he, himself, had been very believable, he thought to himself. Had he not been, he’d not be sitting at the table. It was apparent the husband felt the same way Mcambi did, as the officer and his wife joined in one last go-around.

Oh, this death scheme - it’s just well played out deception, he pleaded. Whoever is behind this is clever. Can’t you see? There is no science or sincerity in it.

And do you deny what they said regarding the strict surveillance that has been kept, and the description of the medical coffins? It has all been authenticated. You know well the methods and enforcements of such orders and regulations.

"How long can one be held in suspended animation? And if you really want to believe the alien is genuine, could someone, especially someone smarter than all humans, make the bodies appear dead, where the vital functions resembled death? And it won’t be mentioned that it’s politically advantageous for all governments to use such a story as a surprise alien visitor. Science - politicized - will cause many to believe that an alien from outer space did land; then from what authority will we be forced to acknowledge this alien as sovereign? Powers from a world leader, a world government, have long been the plan. A contagious fever, if ever I’ve seen one; I’ve concluded that it’s a mass frenzy resulting from indoctrination - believing what news agencies, popular culture, and idealized education has taught as truth. It has finally worked."

"Scoffer. Truly, you’re out to sea."

Withered, but confident in his analysis, he said, Stepping back is part of my job.

The seaman’s wife stood abruptly, pouting and pouring out lament. And as if some prompter from the sidelines gave her the perfect touchstone to her argument, she stated, "A sovereign master over all people and all governments would end geographical territories and political frameworks, and would end such a deliberation as this." Before departing she insulted her mate one last time, declaring his inferiority and his abject loss of respect.

Bidding a respectful salutation of farewell, the gentleman stood, and giving her the lead, waited a minute to make his exit. His searching eyes met Mcambi’s, and with courtesy Mcambi nodded.

Two men walked into the diner at that time, removing their caps and gloves, showing credentials to the waiter while asking questions, one scrolling down on an electronic pad. Mcambi placed the paper to the side. It was a busy port. He was just one soldier, but they could have tracked him to this place. He had figured on his feeling this way, the requirement for considering his own arguments, justifying his defense, why he insisted on bringing other disguises. The men continued to talk, going from one table to another, showing official badges; they weren’t military. Sailors from other ports speaking other languages didn’t understand the questions the men were posing and were eventually dismissed from the probing. Mcambi had prepared a slang accent; he would use it if they approached him.

He leaned over to the jukebox, quickly made his selection, and searched for the obscure slot where he dropped his coins. The music would muffle his voice and conceal any mistakes. It would break their concentration, too. It stimulated conversation in the place, and Mcambi settled back in his booth. Are you lonely tonight? was the croon from the female singer. After one of the men finished taking notes from his inquiry with a pretty, young female at a nearby table, he waved to the waitress. Mcambi listened cautiously as the low lulls from the beautiful song sifted through the room.

All right if we take this booth, Lana? Waved approval to sit in the booth adjacent to the small table at which the young woman sat, the men were now directly behind Mcambi.

One description is the same as all of them. But I’m telling you, Pete, we’re going to get this one.

We’re closing in. There was a minute of silence, uncomfortable for Mcambi, while they were more than likely reading the menu, the younger man flirting.

Mcambi looked up at a large stingray mounted on the wall. It was big, at least as tall as he was, and nearly his age; its barbed stinger stuck out from behind its tail, the length of a soldier’s boot. The particular species was out of place, belonging in deeper marine waters. That ray sure wasn’t a plant-eater, Mcambi thought, looking up at it again, a cloaked Dracula. Maybe the ray was a cheap imitation.

Mcambi felt for his holster as he finished the last of his meal.

Yep, I’m ready; let’s do it, one of the cops said.

Mcambi’s hand swiftly moved to his sling, frozen in place, looking upwards at the ray, thinking of his next move - of his Stingray SR1, his newest, slimmest laser, a reliable pistol - all while recalling the life of his profession.

I’ll order this ‘Hungry Man Omelet,’ and coffee, black. Pete, what are you having?

Oh, give me the cinnamon roll, the one with the nuts and raisins. Uh, hot pekoe?

Throw on a muffin, too - with that omelet. I’ll tell you, Pete, I’ve never seen so many sorry lookin’ characters down here before. Like they’re inviting this guy to rob ‘em.

You’d think they’d been living in another world; I know what you’re saying. They’re just open to anything comin’ their way with their trusting souls, just out for a night’s pleasure. The situation wasn’t nearly as frantic for Mcambi now that he knew they were looking for a thief. Still, his eyes darted. He waited.

Thanks, Lana. Mmm, hot, good. Love a pot o’ tea. Nice waitress.

Steels ‘em blind, nearly kills every victim, while people stand around like it’s a side-show. Oh, the world - it ain’t what it used to be.

"What do ya think about the big side-show? With the question he made goofy sounds and then said, And those little green men?" He laughed.

Oh, I’m a believer. Big believer. I’m sick to death of these criminals. Creeps, and slime-balls. I hope someone can change this world; it stinks like rotten fish.

Catch the aroma of this cinnamon roll, will ya…you want some? This thing is huge. His partner’s phone rang, a brief chat, followed by scanning on his pad, handing it over to share mug shots, Mcambi assumed. Timing - it was all about the right timing, and any minute he would be able to leave.

‘He reflects the future.’ That’s what it says, Pete. Here - take a look at this article.

Pete read it aloud, They had turned to religion, and it failed, then turned to science. No answers were sufficient. The people looked for a leader who could take the hollowness away. Never fulfilled, that longing has remained - that yearning that has been in their hearts, even before their world was torn into pieces, is now to be realized. They had been seeking without knowing the object. The thirst that could never be quenched. Until now. Will he ignite the world with our flame of hope?

Hey, pretty good readin’. You missed your calling - you could have been one of them preachers on old time television. Go on.

They stood in the presence of something they had looked for. So much could be accomplished in him, so much had been already.

Yeah, isn’t that pretty put? That’s as good as reading the sports page; well, stretchin’ a bit. Hey, pass the pepper, will ya? Got the sports page over there? The other cop just laughed. Heat from the pepper brought a tear to his sweaty cheek, he told his partner, as the music continued; more coins had been added to the slot.

A trajectory away from agnostic claims, headed for ancient gnostic systems, three quarters of the global population believed in the paranormal, and this was reflected in the culture of the times, and explained the ease at which the citizenry could follow both a mystic and a universal god. Identity politics would quickly resurface in the form of a boundary line with two opposing camps, the line representing a very deep cleavage.

Mcambi could hear the rustling of newspaper behind him, the younger man, Pete, asking if he could borrow some butter from the young woman nearby, with an enumerative explanation of his day’s schedule, and a hope that he would be back at six, and Oh, by the way… could he entice her to return for a glass of wine, and maybe chow? Though he soon made redress of that and mentioned an upscale, uptown restaurant that would be nicer after that glass of wine. Mcambi couldn’t hear her soft voice, but it seemed she, too, would be lonely tonight.

The café was now busy, with lots of activity and conversation. When Mcambi was asked if he needed anything else, he shook his head in the negative without saying a word. It was a natural time for him to slip out. Busy eating, the officers would pay no attention to him.

Mcambi was directed to the outdoor scullery where all the dirty pots were piled; oversized sinks soaking stacked, used pans from the morning cooking were waited upon by a steely looking man who pointed the direction of the restroom. It smelled of fish. He could hear the harbor seals, their flippers splashing about in the cold water nearby.

A dad was waiting for his little boy, who, at a large basin, was cleaning silvery fish that had perfectly round, large, shiny eyes - fish they had just caught. Their fishing poles leaned against the dirty white tile. Memories of Mcambi’s childhood, pictures of himself fishing with friends and family, flooded into his thoughts, as if they were recent events. Like the beat of a drum, he felt his heart. He thrust the hurt, the pang of missing them, from his inner being.

The proud team of father and son talked as if they were comrades who had conquered their foe, the boy wanting to know about the skull of the alien’s - was it flat like a fish head, what color it actually was, did it have bug-guts or was it like the human skull? Mcambi pictured the flat stingray he had just seen on the café wall.

The human skull, historically, had been the symbol of the divine. When the alien’s head was slain it was seen as sacrificial. Becoming a legendary hero overnight, some recognized him as a great Allamah. To many the resurrection bestowed the title of creator god. His ability showed that man could be absolved of sin, that man could be renewed.

I imagine, the boy told his dad, that the edges of his skull are folded back, so that his brain can grow and project all the wonderful things he knows.

Is that what you think? Did someone tell you that?

It’s in my mind, that’s all, the way I see him.

And the bug-guts?

Yeah, lots. Bugs like we have here; that’s why he has green blood. And real ammonites.

Oh, I didn’t know his blood was green. His dad smiled.

He’s part of the green movement."

As Mcambi washed his hands he saw the glazed eyes of the boy, and knew he was blind. A deep sadness came over Mcambi, but one he quickly stamped out with the gritting of his teeth; his stern stare reflected sharply, mixed with the harsh glare from the light in the shiny metal wall that posed as a mirror.

The dad guided the water onto the fish, and then he lifted a bucket of ice chips for the boy to hand each decapitated fish into for keeping. The severed fish heads were going to the man who was the dishwasher - to boil for a nice broth, the man said. The father talked about certain parts, considered as delicacies of the fish. He was a cook, maybe in one of the fancy restaurants uptown, maybe downtown, where there were many seafront restaurants that catered to the ethnic population of the region. Again, the father carefully guided the bucket over the boy’s hands, while chitchat continued.

Mcambi didn’t know where their conversation was going, if the father’s influence, or the boy’s, would be enough to persuade the other. They talked of healing and miracles, and Mcambi didn’t want to stick around to hear the heart-breaking hope of the boy’s, and if there was any misleading. He wanted the father to be a good guide to his son, just as alert as he was in transferring the fish into the bucket. But it wasn’t any of Mcambi’s business; he stopped himself abruptly from listening to their conversation. He stared at the boy’s opal eyes. He had opal eyes. Opal eyes.

Mcambi walked away from the shipyards where repairs of older military vessels were underway. It was noisy; massive engines combined to make a roaring sound, like that of a lion’s displeasure, Mcambi thought. He looked across at the warehouses, but he could see no indication from where the sound came from, though it was surrounding him. He pressed on.

The sale of fresh fish from the decks of boats, seafood from the outdoor market - the pier had the freshest - with piles of crab, sacks of oysters, slabs of whole salmon on crushed ice. A sign read, For licenses, fees, inquire within. Pricing of tackle and fishing poles were listed next to a stand where heads and shells of shrimp were strewn on old newspaper. Mcambi lifted the end of the soiled, bloodied newspaper and read:

Now as the sole possessory of personal information about the alien, performing this miracle, Numa was in short order installed as the Priest-King and Prophet. Not at all strictly terrestrial, as an inhabitant of this world, Numa had reached beyond his mundane globe, beyond his celestial post representing man’s religions; he was now terra incognita, ambassador to the unexplored deep space, and he presided over that vast and unknown knowledge as no other person could. All the officials, the medical personnel, the scientists and the space teams, stood at attention as if a ceremony had been planned. The promises of the forerunner of this alien had prepared them all for receiving him, but none expected what would follow.

At the outdoor market skulls and skeletons were represented in every form, on t-shirts, kites, paper lanterns, and costumes. Street vendors were selling buttons with a grisly human alien photo on it, in the shape of a skull. Other trendy, U.F.O. driven objects were also featured. Banners were for sale, and extra-edition newspapers in a variety of languages from far-away locations. Mcambi strode over to one of the newsstands and selected an issue. It was calculated only minutes into the announcement of the alien’s identity three days earlier, that a singular, critical event would occur, which now confirms the prophet’s words - that there would be the birth of a monarch by way of the bloody mark of his death. Mcambi placed the paper back into position, feeling glum.

Not everyone would seek out, to see what all the hullabaloo was - surely, nor would everyone so easily follow. But there were more reasons to tag along than not; being passive was a habit of those in society, to witness rather than participate fully. Spectator sports gave the fans the feeling of activity, and one could blame reality television in creating the sense of involvement, but bureaucracies had dictated everyone’s role in blind obedience, from stuffing compliances down the throats of school kids, to the weakened image of the adult.

Playing on C.D.s, informing on complex levels, selections for the scholarly or the religious, Mcambi was bombarded with such mesages as, The world had waited for this moment of resuscitation by artificial respiration, at least for revelation and reformation, and the global population was hopeful for his reincarnation and resurrection. He walked away, distracted with yet another form of communication.

For the illiterate, there were D.V.D.s for sale, explaining in detail the alien’s transmutation, and what this would mean; one was playing of a recorded voice of strong local accent, and many gathered in a tight cluster to watch.

"…the conqueror of death means that he suffered for all