Corrupted Root Corrupta Radix: The First and Last King Series

By Jean Harris Anderson

~THE FIRST AND LAST KING SERIES~
Eschatological novels of beauty and sensitivity!

The setting of a 21st Century university medical center, for scientific and technological research, catapults the reader into a supernatural journey from where C.S. Lewis ended his prophetic warnings in his apocalyptic space trilogy, THAT HIDEOUS STRENGTH.
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Begin by understanding there is a universal plot to obliterate the image of God in the human. That’s the synopsis of this fictional account, but it is also the factual summary for life on our own planet.
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Humankind, on the verge of extinction, pushed over the threshold of technological evolution, had a choice of everlasting life promised by two rival kings. The global population had entered a spiraling future by accepting a radical, interconnected surveillance state – a social, economic, technologic and scientific experiment regulating their behavior, forcing a segmentation and inevitable polarization of the Homo sapiens.
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Anderson is the author of three previous novels, a collection read as a series, though each effectively stand alone: ELIZEUM STRIVING, journal one, PARADOX, THE NORM follows, and book three, A HAVEN NO LONGER.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Feb 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9781664284500

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

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Copyright © 2022 Jean Harris Anderson.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.westbowpress.com

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Scripture quotations are from the Holy Bible, King James Version (Authorized Version). First published in 1611. Quoted from the KJV Classic Reference Bible, Copyright © 1983 by The Zondervan Corporation.

ISBN: 978-1-6642-8451-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6642-8452-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6642-8450-0 (e)

WestBow Press rev. date: 01/13/2023

CONTENTS

DEDICATION

PROLOGUE

CORRUPTED ROOT

ESSAY ONE - Significance of the Mundane

ESSAY TWO - The Importance of One’s Calling

ESSAY THREE - Recent History

ESSAY FOUR - Inheritance

ESSAY FIVE - Stages of Awakening

ESSAY SIX - Miscarriage of Justice

ESSAY SEVEN - Agenda

ESSAY EIGHT - Locus

ESSAY NINE - Light

ESSAY TEN - The Portal

ESSAY ELEVEN - Terminus

ESSAY TWELVE - Appraisal

ESSAY THIRTEEN - Alternate Universe

ESSAY FOURTEEN - Barriers

ESSAY FIFTEEN - Changing of the Guard

ESSAY SIXTEEN - The Frailty of the People

ESSAY SEVENTEEN - Conditions, Natural and Unnatural

ESSAY EIGHTEEN - The Shot Hurt Around the World

ESSAY NINETEEN - Incursion

ESSAY TWENTY - Creating Utopia

ESSAY TWENTY-ONE - Determination

ESSAY TWENTY-TWO - Saurian

ESSAY TWENTY-THREE - Movin’ On

ESSAY TWENTY-FOUR - Sheltered In Place

ESSAY TWENTY-FIVE - Rendezvous

ESSAY TWENTY-SIX - Juxtapositions

ESSAY TWENTY-SEVEN - Foundation

ESSAY TWENTY-EIGHT - Concealment

PARTITION

DUO

ESSAY ONE - Redemption

ESSAY TWO - Summoned

ESSAY THREE - The Remaking of Man

ESSAY FOUR - The Whole Shebang

ESSAY FIVE - Iniquitous Leader

ESSAY SIX - Affair of the Heart

ESSAY SEVEN - Assignments

ESSAY EIGHT - On Trial

ESSAY NINE - References

ESSAY TEN - The Cultivation of Human-Kind

ESSAY ELEVEN - Sutter’s Files

ESSAY TWELVE - The Weaponization of Biology

ESSAY THIRTEEN - The Ideal

ESSAY FOURTEEN - The Time of Your Life

ESSAY FIFTEEN - A Return to Hope

ESSAY SIXTEEN - Kingdoms

ESSAY SEVENTEEN - The General Territory

ESSAY EIGHTEEN - The Mind’s Eye

ESSAY NINETEEN - Deceptive Premises

ESSAY TWENTY - Collaborative Efforts

ESSAY TWENTY-ONE - Woff

ESSAY TWENTY-TWO - In This Setting

ESSAY TWENTY-THREE - Admixture

ESSAY TWENTY-FOUR - It Did Matter

ESSAY TWENTY-FIVE - Coming of Age

ESSAY TWENTY-SIX - Agnize

ESSAY TWENTY-SEVEN - That Sentient State

ESSAY TWENTY-EIGHT - Reactions

ESSAY TWENTY-NINE - Noesis

ESSAY THIRTY - Stepping Over the Boundaries

This is a sequel to A HAVEN NO LONGER,

yet this story, read by itself, can stand alone.

Also authored By Jean Harris Anderson

Elizeum Striving

Paradox, The Norm

A Haven No Longer

and artist for the book The Illustrated Frankenstein,

adapted by Jennifer Anderson

from Mary Shelley’s novel.

DEDICATION

Henry asked if I intended to write more books; that was November, 24, 2019, just prior to the promulgation of the global pandemic; the occurrences following that date had relevance to the future direction of this story, the manuscript outline having already contained a theme of plagues. If you’re gong to write, I’d like you dedicate one to us. Would you dedicate the next book to Pella, Sanna, Panda and me? I told him I would, and here it is.

To my grandchildren with grand love.

Pella, Sanna, Panda

and Henry.

Verily I say unto you, Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven. Matthew 18:3

I work to create these books so that you will know the story of King Yeshua. And for the view from your perspective, I thank each one of you, for there is no delight as that in a child’s eye. For all God’s offspring of the 21st Century, it is to you, the Sons and Daughters of Light, we look for deliverance from our pestilential consequences resulting from our rejection of merit and moral principles. It has been prophesied of these things we currently suffer, Behold, the Lord cometh with ten thousands of his saints, to execute judgment upon all, and to convince all… (from Jude 1:14-15)

PROLOGUE

AN assignment was given to me by the agency from which I was retiring; I was to provide authenticity of journals – before they were discarded as nothing more than a hoax. The circumstances of natural law, having been broken at the time of their receipt, made them impossible to date. But notably, they are from an unknown portal of a higher space realm. The writing holds an epic composition penned by a hero from a world far away, for which the activities are played out in a variety of dimensions.

MY lengthy communique has much for you to take in understanding the flow of the story, while I explain more about the hero, Davin Alastair. Quoted statements, regarding the developments of his world, are taken directly from his unpublished diary. As there is much for you to foresee, my summation is consolidated in a judicious manner. And it will be up to you to decide its credibility.

WHAT aggregation is reengineering Alastair’s society – scything, as it goes? Basically, Alastair has detected a wild infestation, a contamination from one source that is advancing, taking control over the leadership of his planet, a corrupt root, choking what’s alive as it spreads. He and his company will try to stop the growth of this invasive plant, while striving to limit the harvest of human kind, for every day more people perish, entangled in it’s root ball. Though green, it is not a photosynthetic organism from the plant kingdom. There are those, like Alastair, who believe the plant is a foreign, unworldly creature, a deceitful operative acting as a relative of the Homo sapiens.

YOU see, everything changed after an alien visitation; it took time to realize such an alien influence could poison the mind and bring about a threat to the existence of the human species. When he brought universal knowledge to behold, the people were in awe, nearly forgetting the allegiance to their own planet for the life sustenance they had been given. Initially, believing in the alien, people discharged all responsibility to his spirit, a spirit which had first infected the human dignitaries. The demise of the world was evident in the city in which we focus – New City of Black Haven Harbor.

THERE were doubters, not believing in the alien’s authenticity or that the appearance of a UFO was legitimate. But the news would not be squelched. And the alien went from story to legend; crowned with distinguished titles and descriptive names, he became a trademark promoting Transhumanism. The Serpent of the Sea. The Leviathan. The dragonfly creature came alive in their culture, because people believed he was both superior and supernatural, and, in a way, they were correct, for he was of a different nature, from the depths of darkness called Hades.

FROM where we last left, in Alastair’s third journal, he wrote of a scene describing a disturbing appearance of an overhead helicopter; the reader had a sense that catastrophic alterations were taking place to a modern civilization, and this was soon after a visitation from the unworldly creature from beneath their earthly realm. We read that Dr. Esther Abrams made her way through a dense, green vapor, probably a poisonous miasma from a nearby swamp, to the shelter of an old subway station. She entered in, just as a patrol helicopter swooped low; metallic sounds ricocheted. And the skies opened to release a sudden, blinding rain. But she was already in the blackness of that grave when the first drop of rain fell. That entry ended Alastair’s third book. With it, the alien’s death was not yet conclusive, having received a blow to his head.

WHAT if the dragonfly alien lived? Alastair believed the mystery was still up in the air. Old doc Reade, a physician and Alastair’s friend, thought the alien was a concocted hybrid, a chimera formed by the scientific elite for the purposes of duping the public while carrying out their trans-human experiments. Those trials would likely succeed, as Dr. Abrams, no doubt, had found evidence, along with knowledge of other alterations taking place – probably why Dr. Abrams was running for her life.

WE assumed what would follow. Played out in a scene not depicted, we had impressions their society feared nature and that they anticipated the overthrow of civility by riotous gangs, which indeed happened. Anarchists, not necessarily touting individual liberty, but interested in targeting all rulers, had completed, most of them unknowingly, the well-planned orchestration to usurp representative government by elite master-minds.

THESE global puppeteers were illusionists in charge of a revolution to end all constitutional republics and all forms of self-government – so that technocratic intermediaries could reign and their interpretation of theocracy would work. A democratic government represented free-will, and that was the one uncertain aspect of human nature that had to be extracted in order for the human mind to be retrained, and for the new human to live compatibly in a controlled environment. Was it really all about conforming to unbiased equity, as stated?

WITH this realization, that the human could be transformed, came a restart to everything; laws pertaining to science had to change, of course; the laws of every academic subject were also toppling. So, achieving a new start was expected in a New World and Universal Order for the new superhuman. And Transhumanism was the ideal conveyance to Elizeum, their eternal abode for mortals who were related to gods.

THE challenge in preparing the minds of the general population to accept progressive ideology as favorable, and not fitted to the platform of totalitarianism, with its negative economic and political demands, had taken time. It was vital for information to be manipulated for the cause of stifling further intellectual development in the obsolete version of the human – growth, that is, in the slow old-fashioned sense. Reeducating the citizenry was close to accomplishment, since previous generations had fictionalized their historic facts, and they had already censored written materials (including dictionaries and religious books) that were seen as problematic toward human promotion. Success was in dispensing managed, persuasive doctrine reflecting technological advances, while glorifying science.

CONTROLLING obsolete social progress was also an important aspect, done by categorizing people, even arranging their battles; keep in mind, this was a socially pro-active world society. A systematic dismantling of families and of other antiquated group identities that would sway with their own influence, had to be rid of. For cause and cure, they were all replaced by membership in their own amicable tribes, treated as in a biological laboratory, observed just as keenly – the ruling class, or purple clade, was one arm of the tree of life, and then there were the dependents, or green branch, and all had common ancestors. It was from one organism, all these human creatures came from, but both branches on this ancestral tree had their roles to play, which would culminate in a new evolutionary classification.

UNTIL recently the total effort was to block shards of independent thought; expressions in mere fragments were interpreted as anti-progressive and certainly not as reliable or viable as statements made by those experts whose brains had reached a stage of a more acceptable development. Repressing self-expression and inhibiting natural affection were both necessary in constructing a functional, sophisticated new human. This reform movement was all about making alterations, so as to change the human into a living computer.

NOW subdued, they were malleable, sufficient enough to be conformable into any shape the world’s new imperial monarch, Belial, needed – inspired by the visitation of the alien from deep space. A confraternity of the dragonfly alien would be formed, and of his nature he could bestow upon each, as he did Belial, his alien nature, in order to form an alien faith. It was about the mind, yes; it was about the eternal soul, too. And these plans were just beginning to unfold.

WANTING nothing but peace and quiet, the Bloodstone Revolution was ignored by some, and concealed by an orderly, complacent citizenry of the former Black Haven Harbor, renamed as New City. This was the city of Alastair’s family roots and where his book shop was located. A republic for the people, by the people had gradually eroded; a magisterial and bureaucratic system that had been set in motion persuaded its citizens in justifying a culling of people and their positions; in modern terms, it was necessary to the emergent movement of the new era. Post-modernism could draw in all those who could adapt in highly technical, co-operative ways.

TRAGICALLY, truth was avoided – that the forceful, drastic changes would invalidate the character of their society and upend the structure of civilization. And it was all for the purpose of bringing in the commander of a legion of supernatural beings who would suffocate all expressions of heart and humanitarianism, as Alastair now saw it, explained in his second journal:

"THE transfer of power was mythic, as if we were mesmerized. We didn’t see the political revolution approaching, caught off guard until global disorder was evident, ushered in by a pandemic, of sorts, and followed by a cataclysmic event, the great Harpazo, where many, many millions of people disappeared. Early on the leaders had made decisions haphazardly; it was no surprise blame was then shifted, convincing the public that universal alien enemies had removed that segment of our population, though many believed in a religious concept stating: Those who walked with God were translated, and without dying, had gone up in a whirlwind. The human heart was desperate for safety and world order; we were then fixated on a promised utopia where human longevity would bring about our salvation, even at the risk of erasing the sense of personal identity.

"FORCE is essential in seizing total control illegally, so the chaos had been relied upon as part of enforcing dictatorial commands upon free people, so much ordered under the cloak of declared national and global emergencies. It was all purposeful for their cause, not for our safety; I know that now. What followed, for many of us, was an unbelievable spiral down a deep hole. We witnessed good dubbed evil and wicked deeds as morally soothing. A complete inversion of law took place. As it states in King Yeshua’s illegal scriptures, the wicked have taken root.

"HAVING the rug pulled from under our feet left an explosive impact, and we felt sorely betrayed when we figured out how duped we were. But they knew we were gripped with ghastly fears. Their non-stop reporting of riots, looters and murders, and death tolls of the widespread prevalence of lethal diseases, especially the Corona miasma that oozed from the earth after the dead were ejected and the chosen disappeared; with this collision of the Harpazo event, and the dragonfly alien’s arrival, the effect tranquilized the population by shock. As people rooted in place, afraid to wander far from home, we were contained, and that’s when all the subdued brains accepted the new normal, where every aspect of living was politicized and bureaucratized. Policing was by policy, and public health was treated as a corporation – there was no individual; there was only group.

"I admit, for such unsettling transition of power to take hold, our minds had to be prepared first. We had been fed the proper amount of fertilizer to grow certain attitudes; this began with the rhymes and lullabies by the nursemaids, and continued with the rhetoric in higher education – of rejecting, fearing, hating the conservative and obeying, praising, loving the postmodern debauched libertines; with just a touch of compassionate trimming in sensitivity training, while grafting sufficiently by social means, topped off with pharmaceutical cocktails – a new crop of human organisms was produced, resulting in a threat to all species and destruction of civilization. This is my chaos theory – you must first dismantle society in order to replace it with a different form of life and governance."

THESE were the reflections of our writer, Davin Alastair. I will conclude by summing it up with the main element of importance they, the people, were called to act upon, yet failed – King Yeshua, the rightful King of their planet, had been beckoning them to faithfully submit to the plans of the universal God YHWH. But the people had lost their way building toward that everlasting kingdom, distracted by the alien’s perception of what the kingdom on their planet could be. And though the heavenly Beulah, Kingdom of Yeshua, seemed farther away than a telescope could fathom, that was supposed to be the pattern for their planet.

THE current journal you are about to read took place after the rubble was cleared, reassembled buildings were occupied, and work reassignments were made in New City. Let’s look at what happens next, focusing on this membership in their limited temporal life, peeking into that which, in a real sense, might be our shared future world.

Jean, Amanuensis at Hidden Post Press

Jean Harris Anderson

CORRUPTED ROOT

A Novel

ESSAY ONE

SIGNIFICANCE OF THE MUNDANE

New City of Black Haven Harbor, in the province of Latium, had finally become what the leaders designed it to be – a useful machine of co-operation – possible because of its technologic infrastructure. Every occupant was literally dependent on the integration from one database, a brain that filtered and framed a smart outlook on life for its prized citizen. Technocrats, indeed, were in charge of every aspect – science and medicine, as well as toiletries and travel.

Undeniably, it took energy the technocrats relied on. One inhabitant was figuring that out: I’m a storage capacitor, thought H0lli8ter, thinking about her motor circuitry and how it worked. I simply store, though I don’t make energy. She wondered if that reduced her potential to perform in her designated capacity. Where does the power come from? There must be a grand battery somewhere. When I leave my shift there is an identical replacement who will occupy this seat and perform the same functions.

Without question, in any building of uniformed workers one would see rooms with sterile machines worked by those having an appearance of sterility and lack of emotions, for these trained employees were dedicated. With the automatic parts of machinery making dull and senseless sounds, the actions of seemingly unconscious human parts, moving much like the things they were operating, the room took on a lifeless state, a sure and destined existence with each new shift sent in.

Laborers were partitioned off from one another and from transmission of all sorts – from dangerous pathogens to particles of speech. They were fearful of words, and wouldn’t think to speak their minds. Such agents of disease and distraction were, in accordance with laws, reported. Avoiding impromptu occasions, where regretful extemporaneous chatting with co-workers might center on people, places, and things, happened to be foremost in their routine training. Casual talk might accidently lead to disclosing work content; they were not allowed to share any information in the Information Age. They were trained to stifle their emotions, cautious of offending. Precaution and hindering were as important as prevention.

Scheduled and routinized, and, some might reflect in due time, coldly assigned to mechanized duties, their entire unit was employed as one, focusing on the same task at hand; this was, after all, a collaborative society. Though such identical engagement was unknown to the employee, imparity wasn’t imagined. They never acted on their own feelings but always followed by the book, as instructed. Because they were now equal.

Repetition of simple orders by way of obedience, and more obedience eventually caused obeisance and more obeisance…and then laudation of laudanum, and reverence of the theocracy. And how could they suspect life could be any different while fulfilling their predetermined destiny? Technocracy was all this generation knew.

Conquered, they were living the illusion they were in control of the machines they invented, and were a part of, and likewise, the belief was propagated that they conducted a part in the installation of the victorious, irreproachable ruling class, which always had them in mind, since they ordained their predestination.

Occasionally there was a delusional one, like H0lli8ter, who would stray from the allotted, unalterable and appropriate designation, who appeared to be preoccupied and certainly satisfied with the mandatory, mindless monotony, but actually veered off in independent thought. But this was rare.

After all, the dependency on one’s machines and their prescribed power had become integral to all that the human did. Her physiological functions with a particular machine’s activity became one, and at least achieved symbiosis for the day, enforcing motive and duty. The implants certainly assisted in creating this harmony, for those so endowed. Of course, other inducements for effortless concentration were brought about by artificial and natural compliments to one’s chemistry, generally creating a positive attitude.

Even if she didn’t have the gift of a cybernetic implant, New City inhabitant #H0lli8ter, (known to her allies as Cassie Ambrose) would have been the most efficient scribe in her division. She had the schooling and ability to read and write, few others having those proficiencies. But she did have biomechanical enhancements in her hand, making her tapered fingers much more agile at the keyboard, and the benefits of her education produced flawless, legible documents. The speed at which she applied her abilities made her the fastest of all skilled scribes, a fact her supervisor knew, a fact that would be kept from #H0lli8ter, or Ms. Cassie Ambrose, to maintain order and fairness.

The output was all observed, recorded and sent to appropriate parties, just as every activity in civilization was witnessed and judged. Silver screens slid overhead, down each isle and back, retracing hour after hour, day after day, capturing worker and production.

That day, peering over Ms. Cassie Ambrose’s shoulder, the supervisor noted her completed work, by dictation, audio files, by translator or transcriber: Ms. Ambrose’s typewritten copies were perfect word processing documents. She had one other ability, one which could work for her or against her, one which the supervisor was curious about, if Ms. Ambrose was given a chance to demonstrate her ability to analytically work in interpreting text and interview. It involved critical assessment of verse, interrelationships of words and data evaluation, and body language; it was a lot of responsibility to stay within a framework and not step over the boundaries from criticism into thoughtful logic. Oh, yes – there’s a difference.

Ambrose, H0lli8ter, Ms. Cassie Ambrose! She heard her name repeated in her earbuds along with her mathematical designation. Ms. Ambrose, as you would rewrite the score for a different musical instrument, bassoon to violin, for instance, you will be expected to transcribe gibberish into information that makes sense.

Ms. Ambrose was alerted to this assignment on her dependable wireless-enabled wristband at the same time her supervisor was informing her. Converting human speech-sounds that resemble our language? Ms. Ambrose inquired.

The supervisor ignored her question. It is assumed you are up to the task; no physical impairments were detected this morning at entry.

Being trained and prepared for such… Ms. Ambrose spoke up, not as she felt; her emotions and cognitive learning were twisting in an undertow, both compelling, but chilling worries beat against her like breaking waves, making her wish she had not offered the statement. I’m at a level of feeling equipped to respond to duty, asking questions, rendering answers, in any interview style, having been at the task of study, observation, and writing for a number of years. She didn’t stir from her chair, as she convinced herself being in a live situation with others wasn’t all that frightening, but…I get so nervous interacting with people I don’t know, she thought, grimacing. Ms. Cassie Ambrose hid the fact well, that being an introvert in a world of extrovert commanders had its failings, and, if known, it might prove she had a phobia of some weird thing. She had to deny having a rich inner life; no one knew that about her.

Ms. Ambrose realized it was not phonetic sounds her supervisor was talking about, but rather, the superior was denigrating the group Ambrose would be meeting with. Was it for assessment or suitability? She was not told. But she knew it would be challenging, forming questions for those her supervisor had already described as belligerent, or at best, for persons using an obscure form of communication.

Very well. Details of your assignment will follow. Our mobile transcription service is important; as your written statements regarding your findings will be entered in public records, they will reflect our compliance to current dictums. At an unusual location, to convert into printed text, translating and comprehension will be trying under disagreeable circumstances. This assignment is outside civilization, the grave and gravelly voice described.

Outer exterior? Did I hear that right? But no one goes to that region. Surely not the island. Ambrose concealed these doubts well, even acting with an air of nonchalance.

Assignment requests for her were increasing; it was obvious Ambrose had the competency to listen to any of the audio formats and other storage devices, and to organize, summarize, even popularize the recordings in printed format, according to desired effect. Such diversity was used, of course, and they – that is, all Ambrose’s components – were valued, their confluence working as expected. However, compliments of appreciation were withheld from her.

Perhaps H0lli8ter is too accomplished to continue to perform as she has, her supervisor considered, as H0lli8ter is becoming biased, shown in a strange form of efficiency – maybe resembling an inclination to believe the job isn’t good enough for her, exhibited by her flexibility and confidence, her facial expressions, along with her gestures, manifesting some assertiveness…These were frowned upon in their ordered society. The supervisor recognized her conduct as individualism, making note of that possible obsolete ideology in her records, records H0lli8ter, that is, Ms. Cassie Ambrose, happened upon and read, as she could read.

H0lli8ter, that is Ms. Ambrose, she/her feminine preference, found herself at the keyboard that dark, foreboding day, comprehending that while her hands were taking dictation, her fingers whirling about, she was watching as some detached onlooker would. She was free to think, and to be amused at her own cleverness. She wondered, for instance, if her supervisor was an actual person, for she had no idea of her appearance, or if the voice she was hearing belonged to a human or was dubbed in by an automated operator.

Ms. Ambrose grew up in the electronic age; less comfortable face to face, as it was with all her contemporaries, she was used to virtual life, not true reality. Her school lectures had all been on-line, and she communicated with friends, some of whom she hadn’t seen in years, at a distance, all because of restrictions associated with government mandates, preventing pollution, popularity, population-growth, and pandemics.

Sitting there, she thought of a wide range of things: when the next lock down would be, and like an earthquake – the next pandemic wouldn’t be the big one, and she thought it strange everyone was treated as if they were incapacitated, like a senile patient.

She also wondered what purpose the annual behavior and intelligence tests were for. And the boys she knew must now be men, but where were they? She was able to read the time-lines of the population: it didn’t look good on average for the human count. These were poignant subjects, but she had no answers. And, really, she shouldn’t have been posing such questions.

So, she was not impressed for long. She was stunned, perhaps even…horrified, when on and on her hands worked completing task after task, feeding numbers and letters to the finish line. The sudden abandoning of her station startled her hands, which seemed to be estranged electric plugs pulled from outlets. She stood momentarily – in a little square, she now realized, while curiously grasping each side. Playpen, box, rectangle, coffin. Intellectually castrated, she was left drained of energy and glad her shift had ended. And she found herself to be bored. Hmm, a novel nuance, she noted. Maybe it has something to do with my inner-workings.

By contrast, after hours, where the laborers drank and ate, and chatted and chimed in the official monolingual language, by way of their portable translator device, but with all kinds of brogues and accents, as the electronic interpreter hadn’t quite mastered every aspect of communication, the ordinary and the fascinating were enlivened by the (subdued) shouts of their (measured) milling crowd! A population without an immunity system, a weak, unnatural one, contributed to their attitudes: grim, grave, gullible, and garrulous. Wandering and weaving, compliant with the required social etiquette, this sensational movement of being so close, yet far from danger, encouraged the delight of comradeship, respectively shown by the latest regulations for safety and order. The dependent laborers came to life just after the first sip of that predictable metabolite boost from their biotech supplemental cocktail.

But only to stumble to the place of sleep, to wake to the numb task of schedule and familiar work once again, was reliably repetitious; at least, Ambrose was beginning to see it that way. Each day seemed like an act of contrition for nearly each night of the lunar year. Exceptions to practicality were the provided, organized holidays for riotous protests – activism globally approved, of course – powerful, political, and predicted.

That evening, as confused as Ms. Cassie Ambrose felt with this new, uncomfortable knowledge of tedious confinement, she squeezed the fingernail of her baby finger to turn off her certified electronics, and retreated with her friends, as she nearly always did, to one of their favorite hip restaurants. Mechanized life has its ease, Cassie had to remind herself, and she wasn’t going to forfeit an evening’s pleasure – even with high anticipation of the following day.

Darnel, Cassie, whispered, her lips forming the name of her closest friend, seeing her enter the café. One would not know Darnel had a natural voluminous voice, as she rarely removed her clear face shield, one that looked like it belonged to a welder. While waiting in line they expressed their thoughts in stunted phrases and gestures understood only by them, having formed such a system of communication at a time when Darnel had a temporary hearing loss from an ear infection. It was at that very café Darnel was dispensed a medication from the apothecary which alleviated her pain and, almost magically, cured her.

All stores, restaurants, and services in New City were a part of one universal mega chain; the entrepot was a market center with tentacles reaching out, distributing to each one, even if they appeared as small, charming boutiques – each a licensee of one bureaucracy or another, all were owned by one universal overseer. There was a certain reliability with this method; well, at least there was consistency; therefore, sameness was guaranteed, since the regulatory agencies made sure every commercial establishment was to code and standard.

Enclosed seating, separating each diner behind glass, allowed freedom to eat and speak without the cumbersome diner’s mask required. Outdoors the tented city supplied purified, sanitized oxygen, free of airborne microbes and pollutants. On occasion, when a new infectious invasion was detected, there was the strict gowning protocol every citizen had to adhere to in public, and then the lingering chemical vapors usually kept people in place. Ah, such welfare and guaranteed security!

But there was to be a diversion for Ms. Cassie Ambrose from this constant and repetitive routine. Her mind was stimulated as she sat on the café patio explaining to her closest companion, Ms. Darnel Cruz, what would take place the next day.

The transcriber, one usually employed with the school superintendent, has taken ill, and I’ve been appointed to take that position. Just for the day, but I’m really curious what other scribes do. Cassie’s green, celadon eyes twinkled brighter than the glow-in-the-dark stars adhered to the geodesic dome above their heads, as something different awaited her; an alternative to the usual routine transformed her outlook. She read the message once again on her digital wristlet, not believing it could be true, and then she told her friend Darnel, The schedule is set for the observation and testing of students in Old Town. I’ll bet our New City superintendent hates this annual requirement. But it’s still under his jurisdiction.

"The village school is open? That’s a whole different territory. I wonder why you were picked, Cassie? Maybe cuz you still look like a student, and they’ll take you in their confidence; that’s probably expected. But you’ll hardly fit in with your good looks next to those cave dwellers." Cassie had that advanced appearance all her peers possessed, with their modern uniforms and flattering face coverings to protect their normal human bodies. She wasn’t perfect, like a humanoid, and no one would know the fact she was a cyborg, because her hand looked as typical as any human hand.

I don’t know. It’s a trek out there to the island, I’m told, and I don’t know by what means we will travel. And the dictation machine could be unstable. As sure footed as it is, it’s used to following me down smooth hallways, just running to transcriptionist conference rooms. But it’s collapsible when necessary, can compactify within my wrist to hologram capabilities, so three-dimensional images can be reported back.

Darnel Cruz knew a little about mathematics and physics; on her own she had secretly studied. She was often juggling a few subject matters at the same time. About compactification, Cassie; don’t go there. String theory is not a definite science quite yet. Reconciliation of our dimension with other theoretical ones will jolt your already heady brain, in a low tone Darnel confided.

"Darnel? Darn?"

"Oh. I was digressing. By territory, as we define, it’s the Dark Ages over there in Old Town, inhabited by a race dissimilar to ours with a different social class; I don’t think they have a tribe and designation; it’s an unregulated society, at best. Aren’t you a little nervous to be with people like…? Aren’t you even jittery going beyond New City bounds? You couldn’t persuade me to go to that island for anything, Cass."

Really? Cassie, felt a bit of disappointment Darnel hurled her way.

Are you kidding? Everything is wild and unrestrained on that island. Untested for sure. Don’t eat, breathe, or touch anything while you’re there – especially those dirty, little kids – if and when you do arrive to Old Town, she smirked. And wash up good when you get back, she scolded. Darnel also had interest in the technical applications of science; she had a look of repulsion on her ordinarily kind face, maybe one of horror, listing peculiar and possible pathogens waiting on the foggy island.

Huh. Well, I’ve not been out there to judge.

Not that I have, Cass; don’t get me wrong. That’s just it – who goes out there? Merely listen to what officials have to say about the island and the brutes who live there.

Actually, I’d nearly forgotten our shared geography of Black Haven Harbor.

What would a person even wear to go to such a place? Scuba gear? You’d look like a hornet. No, you’ll have to be versatile, pert as an expert. I’m sure you won’t be allowed to wear your work scrubs; your function will be identified differently out there. Do you still wear those fever-proof face shields and those funny little head caps? Ya know, Cass, I was pricing at Phantom Wear & Music Gear, and…

ESSAY TWO

THE IMPORTANCE OF ONE’S CALLING

If only the island of Black Haven Harbor could be surgically excised from New City and the province of Latium, all would be satisfied. At night the island nearly disappeared from New City’s view; with no power and few inhabitants, the small land mass, and even the open sea, had been forgotten by most. But it was watched, spied over, its rugged ridges paved with bounties few predators would risk taking.

A variety of animals had made their lairs underground on the overgrown and wild isle. The people, in their own dens, hidden away from all forms of modern systems, were the hunted. And perhaps the most dangerous of the territory was the powerful philosophy one would encounter from the islanders. And yet outsiders went to the island, some out of desperation, the curious on occasion, and the gruesome – planning its annihilation.

That evening a spy peered through the tarnished window of a rickety abode, where two hulking figures sat, their broad backs bowed, their large hands spread to gather the little warmth over a flame from a single candle. The brutes whispered and exchanged haunting tales about human existence, the younger howling at the Moon, the other, much older, gestured to God with his decrepit frame. The walls cast shadows of their past and future, as a bulging, bloody bag was revealed. And the spy left in haste.

Had the spy entered that abode, his vision would have been clarified, for that very hour the younger man, who possessed the spiritual and intellectual attributes to move him to action with compassion for others, saw the monumental reason for leaving the island. He had both hope and fear for the islanders, of which he was a descendant. The demise of the island was no longer speculation. Betwixt and between, this youthful man lived on the island and worked in New City, witnessing enormous alterations in both places.

The difficulty was not in making the decision to leave; pain would come at the time of leaving. His sense of a calling was not imagined; assigned from God, it was evident; he didn’t argue this wisdom, nor did that second figure sitting nearby – that of the elderly man, the island doctor, consider the calling imperfect. It wasn’t a command of situation or circumstance, nor limitations; the human soul knows from which authority calls, even over the potency of a great mind, a mind such as that which Davin Alastair, at so young an age, indeed had.

In hushed tones Davin, a proprietor of books, and Doctor Reade Sinclair bantered, exchanging some laughter. Reade intended for them to engage in serious discussion, though, and this he indicated by introducing the topic the islanders were dreading – tomorrow’s visitors from New City’s Ministry of Education.

I doubt those supervising the education of city children know, but others accompanying that educational staff will be from the Solicitor General’s office – influencers and sales people, recruiters and such, with their own purposes in mind.

Headhunters. We should expect a stressful day. Davin was angered.

I hate for the children to be exposed to the level of rhetoric they almost certainly will be. All influenced by the dogma of the monster we are battling.

I’ve got to go to the bookshop early; I am myself expecting a visit; city inspections of the exterior; security installation for the row of buildings will soon be underway. But count on me to return to the island at noon, Reade.

People in civilization are gearing up for defense, aren’t they? Including those in New City?

The wall is tighter than ever, Reade. They’ve just installed preemptive arms; they say it’s for self-defense.

Ha! That city wall – keeping their population as prisoners.

"The completed wall will be the foundation for the edifice known as the new Tower of Babel, where new speech is true speech, and one language hailed as one mind. Supposedly, their power and might will ascend up to the Universe, making them gods. That’s what they claim." This Reade didn’t doubt, for he was a learned man, well-read, studied, versed in fables and philosophical scriptures that told of humankind’s foibles and follies in trying to reach the ultimate – leaving God behind.

Their untenable plan speaks of such. Long in planning. Self-defense, huh? Doc Reade shook his head.

But the Province of Latium won’t wait for skirmishes to start; already Latium is invading countries known to be neutral, where a stronghold can be gained and more soldiers obtained. New City possesses nuclear capabilities, Reade. Function of such is unclear; outer space is suggested. There is evidence from the dialogue I hear that ushering in planetary supremacy can only be through submission to Belial or Numa. Which shall it be? While Belial is now anticipating victory, quoting Caesar’s words, ‘veni, vidi, vici,’ everyone says Numa will be elected Pontifex Maximus – head of the state religion.

Reade was visibly shaken. Ah, the alien, through Belial, knows our history well. ‘I came, I saw, I conquered,’ Caesar said. Belial mimics; the alien seeks to extend his territories. Battles then; that’s what we are to expect. I must tell you why this step is of great concern to me, Davin: Nearly all of the thousand prophecies related in our Holy Book have come about; only a few remain, and one states that our province will be renewed; our ancient country once dominated the world, and it is predicted – there will be a revival of this region to once again rule with a heavy hand. But not alone.

The time, then, will come. This I must not ignore. Yet it’s far easier to look at the familiar – our worthy abode here on the isle, in which I will defend. But it’s Beulah we all need to keep focus on, where our King Yeshua resides. Sight unseen for so many, it’s easier to fear suspicions and pursuits Latium has drawn.

Well. I realize more than ever…Davin, I do need to let go now. Doc’s frame bent over to pull from beneath his large chair an uncommon, swollen leather bag. I didn’t know where else to put it. Reade seemed apologetic, placing the bag in front of Davin. Smeared and blotched in red, the valise had a story to tell; as if it were a character unable to speak, Reade thought the importance of that story should be told. Take it, Davin. But first, there’s a need for you to know why this satchel has been intended for you, why you will, knowing your character, act on its contents in the near future. Time has a way of tricking us, even when we pay due diligence to the keeping of history.

Davin picked up the leather satchel. He opened to the inside flap, where there was a large embossing. His finger traced the branding of his family name on the flap. ALASTAIR, the identifying mark of ownership, had absorbed oils from the hands that had used the leather carrier in the past, leaving the imprint with a fine patina. Time and history, you say?

A noise alerted the men suddenly. It’s outdoors, at the window.

Take the hurricane lamp; I’ll keep the candle lit, Reade instructed. Davin, in a hurry to scour the outskirts, placed his headlamp on, flooding the room with the beam, and he left.

Such rooting out could be dangerous, but without ascertaining could be deadly.

Upon Davin’s return he told Reade of his findings, which could have been accomplished by wild animal or human spy, as the branches of a bush at the front window had been bent downward and trodden upon. "The only calling card left." Davin tried to make light of a dark situation.

There were other things to be watchful for, like damage to the exterior of a house, to force its occupants out. Earlier that month there had been a fire at the inn, isolated at the end of the island, and blamed on faulty wiring; it was owned by the only electrician on the island. The irony was bitter, and the fabricated story acted as a warning to the islanders. Other such destructive occurrences had been odd and too frequent to be accidental.

They could not be heard in the middle of the house where they were sitting, the couch and chair next to an inner wall. Kerosene and matches were a luxury, and would not be resupplied easily. And yet, Reade now insisted the hurricane lamp be left on – in order for Davin to see the bag. Reade, I’ll keep looking for batteries and flashlights in the black-market. I should leave my headlamp for you.

No. The only way you can travel at night is by that light.

ESSAY THREE

RECENT HISTORY

Davin’s eyes were now riveted on the leather bag, proceeding to familiarize himself with it, as though the inanimate object was not exactly a mere entity. A careful introduction, one of esteem, yet with uncertainty of how, in its acceptance, it would complicate, not just his responsibilities, but his life. He peered into the bag interior, lined with weatherproof material to protect the essential contents; notebooks and loose papers were indistinguishable. His work in the bookstore involved much ordering and classifying; perhaps that was the reason for his assignment in its keeping. But was that so foundational to his going forward with his own plans?

What you will carry, Davin, has been entrusted in your care because of your integrity, because of its purity; the records within have not been tainted or altered. People endangered their lives to carry the truth of it. Davin looked again at the rust-red color upon the bag. It is blood-stained. The blood of a doctor who saved and rescued others.

Your father’s?

No. More recent a martyr, I do fear. The power of a bullet whipped the satchel from the doctor’s grasp as she narrowly escaped, but not without serious injury, perhaps a mortal one. You can examine the obvious hole where a bullet went clean through – entering here, at the front of the valise, and out the back, having ripped through the doctor’s body as well. Mr. Ferdinand believes someone by foot was pursuing the doctor, as the street was closed to vehicles, and with a hand-gun pulled the trigger from a distance, but there were others aiming to get her, perhaps not in so dramatic a way, to end her career, one way or another.

Mr. Ferdinand, the investigator? I know him.

Yes. He followed the physician that crucial day, knowing there were dangerous people at the hospital with a will to kill her. He told me about the circumstances and what occurred.

When did this all occur? And he had the bag?

It was apparent that Mr. Ferdinand understood the importance of the bag’s contents. Professor Thomas Bloom, whom the bag was first given to by your father, had imparted instructions to the physician when he left that bag in her care, that should she need to part with it, that it be returned to Alastair Books.

A connection to all. Reade, I worked with the detective briefly; I have the greatest respect for Mr. Ferdinand, but, how did it end up in his hands, and if you didn’t know him, how and why did the investigator contact you?

His medical condition. Mr. Ferdinand was badly wounded. It was best not to tell you at the time, Davin. Let me explain: Mr. Ferdinand came to me for help, needing urgent care. He had heard that I refused care to no one. I wasn’t acquainted with the detective. On the run, I was relieved when he showed his credentials. It’s amazing, the strength he had to get out of New City and to the island with the shock and blood loss, in pitch black darkness, and with the burden of the bloodied satchel slung over his back. That was the first item he gave to me for safe keeping; even before his life, he needed assurance of the bag’s safety. Then I knew he was on our side.

Tell me; is he okay, Reade?

I hope. He stayed with me several days. Fearful we would be found out, pleading I not leave the house, not even to contact you, I learned Mr. Ferdinand had worked with you; the detective mentioned something about the remains found at archaeology sites, that you assisted him with your religious knowledge. The main excavation – Jordan, I believe he said, he concurred with you on and other items unearthed in remote areas outside of Jordan. Archaic, theological, a serious accumulation of matters the state would consider illegal are now in your possession; those briefs of yours, along with additional notes from an excavation he had returned from that very day, are included in the bag.

I could have been implicated, had my notes been confiscated. But what do you mean that you hope? Is he okay?

He was when he left me.

Tell me more, please.

"He explained little else at first, just wanting me to trust him without the complications of detail. He was grievously affected by the bitter day’s event, leaving him with multiple scars; I could patch him up, but not his emotions – his spirit was as wounded as any man’s I’ve seen. Before leaving, he spoke of the onset of the Bloodstone Revolt, which we have since witnessed, the seizing of New City, those leaders we could count on – slaughtered like cattle. Our motley enemies are now in charge over blood-warrants, assassinations, and I fear there will be public executions before their so-called peace-keeping and modernity will be brought about."

Davin hid his face in his hands. There was great pause before he spoke. Somehow he made his way to the island, Reade, just as the wave of horror started. Obviously, he can’t go back. His life is in danger either way.

As a physician, I shudder at the thought of those lives lost and what is to be.

It has crippled us all. What else did he relate?

It wasn’t easy for him to speak of it, but I suppose he knew there wouldn’t be another time for him to tell, so eventually he told in detail what occurred. Power in New City was down that dark day, he said, a widespread outage, lights out all over the province; planned or not, it was the beginning of horrors. Fearful for her safety, he had been following his dear friend, the doctor, at a distance, from the time she left the hospital grounds. The streets were filled with chaotic activity, making it difficult to follow the physician closely, and he lost her. Searching, with no trace, he drew a conclusion: She often took shortcuts through the park. Using that keen instinct, he dashed through the park to the opposite end, where they had met on occasion. The darkness was pierced with lightning strikes, allowing him to see the bandstand. Momentarily another hit nearby, lighting up the old subway entrance that’s no longer in use, where he saw one single figure. His vision was blurred with the dense fog, but he was sure it was Dr. Esther Abrams. He called out to her in the noise of the wind and violent drumbeats of thunder. She turned and he could then see her face. A helicopter whipped the wind overhead, and bullets rang out in one focused area, just as a fierce, blinding rain hit. He ran to where he had heard her call out; it was the satchel he abruptly stumbled upon, stopping him at the subway entrance. He scoured the area, feeling his way on the slippery walk, into the park, then over sharp gravel and wet grass; he couldn’t see his way in the unusual darkness that had descended that afternoon. Then a brilliant light of the helicopter returned. It was obvious to him no one was on the ground in sight. More bullets were sprayed, this time like confetti, and some ricocheted – that’s when he was hit. The helicopter was a weapons type, using a machine gun with capabilities of infrared light to detect body heat. Somehow, with that bag, he darted like a jackrabbit through the trees and darkness, shielded temporarily nearby under the stone walking bridge. There he tore his shirt to use as tourniquets, stopping the loss of blood.

And the hospital was right there, one he had to avoid. The doctor – where was her body? I’m sorry you have to recall all this, Reade.

"It’s important I repeat his testimony to you. I did ask him what possibly could have happened to the physician. He related more then: Mr. Ferdinand, seeing muddy footprints leading