My spirits rose.
“But—“
My heart sank.
“There might be a complication.”
I dreaded the question I had to ask: What could go wrong? Spud didn’t wait for me to say the words. His voice, cold and unforgiving, intruded without mercy. “If you succeed, John would die.”
Chapter 17
Reality Bites
“Why?” was all I could muster.
Moore scratched a bushy sideburn. “You are familiar with the time-traveler’s paradox?”
Did Moore know about my unauthorized mission to Zygfed’s RAM with Agriarctos to rescue Anesidora’s neurocache, too? Benedict’d had us do an Ergal-guided time leap so that I came face-to-face with the future version of myself—and watched her die. Hoarsely: “Some.”
“I see two scenaria. You hop merry-go-rounds to the past and return the Somalderis to its owner--before your past self arrives to…borrow it. The owner now has two—and is suspicious enough to prevent you from borrowing any. Ergo, you can’t go to Benedict’s brane and rescue John. And, you can’t take a used Somalderis back so the owner ends up, as before, with one.”
I frowned. I wasn’t exactly sure I followed Moore’s logic.
“The other viable scenario: you return the Somalderis after its owner dies, and everything remains the same.”
“Now wait a minute,” John interceded. “You’ve left out the possibility that she could return the Somalderis right after she borrowed it. Yeshua could use it—“
“No,” I muttered. “He was arrested just as I was transporting out…”
“And would not be alone again until he’d breathed his last…” Spud finished, focusing his gaze on John. “I checked the records, alas.”
“Hey,” John held up a hand and stepped back, “don’t load this on me. There’s always another solution to every challenge. I’m not going back to that hell of nothingness.”
“Even at the cost of your family’s lives?” Spud shot at him.
A flash of anger. “You don’t know what I know, Escott, so keep your tight-ass out of our business.”
“It’s not just your business, Rush. There are millions of people in this timeline, on this world.”
“Heaven on Earth.” Ice missiles in John’s voice. “Progress, prosperity, peace. Millions of people living happy, comfortable lives. Your brother’s life was a small sacrifice, Escott, for the common good we’ve witnessed here.”
“You do not have the right to choose who will sacrifice for whom,” cried Spud, flushing red from his neck to his hairline. “’By that sin fell the angels’.”
“John! Spud!” I reached out an arm to each. “John is right—there’re always other options. We’ll find a way to bring everyone back. Without returning John to-to….” I couldn’t finish.
From Moore, a crooked smile and cryptic words, “I have no doubt that you will.”
* * *
None of us were in a mood to sample the lush dinner Moore was offering if we’d stay. But Moore did have some other things to offer that I found appealing. Like a connection to this timeline’s Zygan Federation, where we might be able to repair our Ergals; and get some obvious anamorphing and transporting powers that might facilitate any brane-hopping, or merry-go-round hopping, we needed to do.
“Can you take us to a Zygfed outpost?” I asked our host. “We could get our Ergals reactivated.”
“I wouldn’t advise that,” Moore said. “You’re under the Omega Archon’s radar now—better than being under his heel if they become aware of what’s happened.”
Spud shook his head. “We shall all be sentenced to Hell for the rest of our lives.”
“Well then, Les, can you fix our Ergals? Nevada to here was bad enough in a blimp. I’ll go nuts making that trip for two weeks over the Atlantic.”
John brightened. “Where are we going?”
Spud contributed a disgusted sigh.
“I’d like to visit the ‘scene of the crime’.” I feigned lightness. “Perhaps we can figure out another way to reverse what happened.”
Spud shook his head. “Jerusalem is now called Alsharif, and is a regional capital in the province of Philaia,” he intoned, consulting his CD. “It is also 10,000 miles from here.”
“That’s why we need our Ergals operational.”
Moore cleared his throat. Loudly. “Don’t fret. I can arrange for you to get a black market tool that performs some of the functions of an Ergal. That should let you bypass the ‘local transportation’ and travel by instantaneous mass transport, and make your less patient readers happy.”
“What?” I said, but Moore had already turned his back to us and headed off to an adjacent room. Did I hear what I thought I heard?
I glanced at Spud. The furrowed brow was back. But John didn’t seem at all puzzled. He was leaning against one of the holoscreens with a satisfied grin on his face.
* * *
The ‘black market Ergals’ were thin bands, made of silver, but unlike Anesidora’s M82 Ergal, were undecorated with writing or pictographs. We each slipped one on our fingers, and waited for Moore’s instructions.
“They’re not quite as powerful as real Ergals. You won’t be able to invisibilize or lev, but they’re not bad for data mining and anamorphing. With the right settings, they’ll provide instantaneous mass transport, across the Atlantic, or across the centuries. If you leave soon, you’ll be in Philaia within minutes, just before sunrise.
“And that’s where the city of Jerusalem is, right?”
“Was,” Moore nodded. He took my hand in both of his and brought it up to his chest. “But you’re sure you won’t stay the night? I make a mean lasagna.”
I met his intense gaze with a confident smile. “Only if you answer my question: what’d you mean when you said ‘your less patient readers’?”
My hand dropped as Moore released his grip and turned away, eyes twinkling. “Have a safe trip, Shiloh. Until we meet again.”
Now I was the one with the furrowed brow.
Chapter 18
Everything New Under the Sun
The Middle East—alternate present day
Alsharif, née Jerusalem, was a gleaming modern city. After promising to return our loaner CD’s to Nea Athina’s Ministry of Intercourse, Moore had arranged for us to M-fan in the Philaian burg in a lush park that encircled a glistening lake, shimmering with the rays of dawn.
“I love what these alternate civilizations have done to deserts,” John said, awestruck as we made our way onto a broad pedestrian boulevard lined with colorful bushes and flowers and stared at the surrounding architecturally diverse towers molded from glass and steel. Marble statues and other objets d’art stood guard at the entrances and lobbies of the high-rises. At pavement level were shops and cafes where customers enjoyed shopping in the warmth of a sunny morning.
I noted the absence of cars. The streets were filled with toga-sporting walkers, men, women, and children, assisted by people-movers of various types. In the center of the road were drivers of small personal vehicles, resembling Segways with seats. Next to them were two rows of moving sidewalks, then lanes for ambulation, paved as in Nea Alexandria with a springy turf. I even noted a few bikes, three and four wheeled, with reclining seats. What was most impressive was, despite the traffic, I could hear drifting conversations in a variety of languages, not noisy vehicle engines.
“Solar and wind power can fuel all of this?” remarked John, amazed.
“Hardly,” Spud advised us. “My historical review has revealed that the USA rejected low energy nuclear reactions as a source of energy. Philaia obviously has not.”
“Wow. Cold fusion. Unlimited energy with limited risks.” John’s expression was pure admiration.
Spud seemed to share the USA’s opinion. “Though I have sometimes acceded to taking a place at the table, I have never yet been seduced by a free luncheon.” He paused
to listen to the ambient chat for a moment, adding, “Arabic, Greek, Latin, and Farsi. A Germanic tongue, from Prussia, I believe, and another, from Eastern Europe, known as Yiddish. Quite a melting pot here in Alsharif.”
“And it sure looks like everybody’s getting along with each other. Amazing.” John pointed to a clear tablet that a pedestrian was reading as he walked by. “Let’s see if there’s a blog or something we can use to get caught up with the local news.”
We trekked a few blocks past buildings decorated with friezes honoring familiar-looking deities.
“Yes, that is Zeus and Hera,” Spud said, pronouncing Zeus with the standard British two syllables.
“Who’s the dude with the halo?” John asked.
“Osiris, I believe,” Spud squinted at the writing on the base of one statue. “Across the street is the Goddess Isis. You can also espy her on that frieze over there with Horus.”
Osiris sure looks a lot like Yeshua, I marveled, eyeing the massive statue. But I hadn’t seen any homages to our Judean prophet himself. I began to worry that our trip to these historic lands would be for naught. The prevalence of pagan gods in the artwork of this modern city didn’t bode well for followers of Yeshua’s prophecies.
Spud was thinking along the same lines. “This culture is definitely committed to the Isis-Osiris team. If we are to uncover any residua of our target, it would behoove us to locate a local house of worship and access its library and historical records for traces of Yeshua.”
“Fine,” offered John, “but how ‘bout we do that after we’ve gotten something to eat. My stomach wants dinner.”
We found a shop selling tablets (along with ample servings of hummus, warm pita bread, and falafel) that was willing to accept our USA currency, albeit with a patronizing smirk. After uploading the news of the day on our tablets, first in Anglish, which was a Chaucerian mix of Celtic and Germanic words, we gave up and opted for Latin, which came up a much more readable combination of Italian and French, especially with interpretive help from our new Ergals.
We sat in the shade under an awning, scanning as we munched. The news from Philaia, as well as Greater Romi to the northwest, was glowing, literally, on our electronic pages. Yes, there were still skirmishes raging in Asia between the Empires of Ming and Meisho, and occasional dust clouds from nuclear explosions in Oceania, but in what had been the Europe and Middle East of our Earth, the reports read “peace and prosperity for all”. Measured growth and development, a vibrant arts and culture scene, free education for children and adults, subsidized health care--
“This system of government appears to be a federation of independent provinces, working together collaboratively under the guidance of the Ministry of Synergy,” commented Spud between bites. “As far as I can determine, the model is most similar to that of the social democracies of Northern Europe in the latter part of the twentieth century. A social safety net and regulated enterprise.”
“So how do they pay for all of this?” asked John, waving a hand at the skyscrapers and city’s well-maintained infrastructure.
“That free lunch Spud hates so much,” I speculated. “This society seems to have all the energy it needs. We all know most wars are really fought for resources, land, gas, oil.”
“Not nationalism?” John’s tone was dubious.
“You mean Queen and Country?” I teased, glancing at a dour Spud.
Spud didn’t meet my eyes. “Not any more. My Queen and Country no longer exist.”
* * *
John and I did most of the talking for the rest of our meal. Spud sat back in his chair, arms folded, appearing lost in thought, but the tense outline of his neck muscles made it clear that he was anything but calm. Better not to poke the sleeping dog. Spud’s bite was much worse than his bark.
Neither our Zygan or our black market Ergals had a any additional data that could help us find Yeshua or flesh out his history, so John and I used the tablets to search for houses of worship whose priests might be able to give us some clues as to Yeshua’s sad end and interment.
The closest temple we located was a massive brick structure two miles away sporting several obelisk-shaped towers decorated with ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics. After a pleasant walk, we entered its spacious lobby, our footsteps echoing up to the flat high ceiling above us from the mosaic tiles on which we stood. The inner walls around us were filled with bright murals storyboarding myths I assumed portrayed the life stories of the gods Horus, Isis, and Osiris.
Standing respectfully before the paintings, I felt obligated to whisper. “I’m awed.”
“Yes, you are,” was my brother’s snide response. Obviously he wasn’t as impressed by the temple as I was. I favored him with the appropriate glare.
“Are you men of the Mysteries?” a voice behind us asked in Arabic.
I guess I could look like a guy with my short hair, especially from the back. But “Mysteries” were a mystery to me in this context. I let John answer.
“What?” he said, in Ergal Arabic. Real good, bro. I could’ve pitched that.
“Are you participating in the lesser mysteries this morning?” the voice repeated.
“Um, yes, sure.”
“We are bringing the Kista to the Hierophant,” Spud intervened. “Please inform him we have arrived.”
I heard the sound of receding footsteps and peeked over my shoulder to see a red toga disappearing behind a set of wooden doors. John clapped Spud on the shoulders, adding, “Thanks for helping me out there. Where’d you learn all that?”
“British public schools,” I muttered. “Fill us pagans—I mean non-pagans—in.”
“The Mysteries are ancient rites and ceremonies that church members participate in as a way to access the highest truths of their religion.” Spud Ergaled an ornate wooden chest by our feet. “This is a Kista, and it contains some holy objects. A snake, seeds, laurel leaves, dried basil, and a curved dagger. It also contains a few doses of psilocybe mushrooms,” Spud paused, “to help achieve this state of understanding.”
“Ha,” I laughed, “In that case, half of Hollywood should be on its way to Nirvana by now.
“Nirvana has no place in the Cult of Isis,” Spud said, frowning. “Isis began as the Egyptian goddess Aset. The Sanskrit word Nirvana is traced to India.”
John and I both rolled our eyes, just as Red Toga strode back into the room, followed by an olive-skinned old man with a long scraggly gray beard.
“You are not participants!” bellowed the priest, his eyes resting on the B-cup domes on the front of my chest.
“No,” John said, moving in front of me, “but we bring you gifts in exchange for your wisdom.”
“Heretics,” the priest cried, pointing a bent finger at Spud’s face. Two more red-togas covering muscular acolytes appeared in our view. Neither seemed to be radiating hospitality.
“Am-scray,” John whispered in English, “On ‘three’.”
We were back out the door and running down the block by ‘two’.
* * *
By evening, we had visited a few more temples. Only one, its Doric columns making it look more like a courthouse than a church, had a cleric who was willing to hear out our questions.
“False prophets abounded one to two thousand years ago,” the priest reflected. “Poverty, pestilence and plague prevailed. The dire conditions were conducive to promoting an apocalyptic mentality—the world was ending and the promise of paradise was irresistible.”
John snorted. “I don’t agree. Have you read the versions of Genesis?”
The priest nodded. “Of course. Unlike some of my colleagues, our temple’s clerics are progressive and work collaboratively with religious leaders who worship Yahweh, Zarathustra, the Buddha, and even non-theists. We have studied the Torah.”
“Well, Adam and Eve were expelled from Eden for corrupting their ignorant bliss with the fruit of the tree of knowledge,” John said, “but the dri
ving search for paradise, for heaven, is to absorb all knowledge, to learn the answers to all our questions, to understand all. That passion is not inspired by unpleasant material circumstances, but by an obsession for the truth.”
“I believe my own interpretation of Genesis is that the absolute truth can be devastating and destructive.” The priest reached over and picked up a gold chalice, offering it to my brother. “Perhaps if you try some of our grapes, you can quench the fire that seems to be burning your soul into ash.”
“Pah.” John shook his head and turned away. “Keep your wine and your mushrooms. I’ll nurture my vice until we meet in heaven.”
“Well,” I said, exhaling. “That’s gotten us nowhere.” I swung my arms to release the tension.
“Perhaps you may find the information you seek at the University of Isaiah,” the priest said, patting my hand. “Let me see your tablet.”
Spud handed the tablet to him, and we watched him pull up a map of Alsharif. “Here,” the priest pointed to a ring around the city, “is the old wall. The renowned University of Isaiah has a large campus in the West Quarter. You should speak to Professor Malamud in the Department of History, Philosophy, and Religious Studies.” He returned the tablet to Spud. “Please transmit my wishes of ‘Greetings and Health’.”
Grumbling, John was already on the street.
* * *
Isaiah University, Alsharif—alternate present day
Professor Malamud burst into laughter when I relayed the priest’s message. “His wishes were rather the opposite when I declined his request that I become his fourth wife.”
Another surprise. We’d expected to meet a grizzled old man, the Middle-Eastern version of Lester Samuel Moore, when we made our way to the University of Isaiah. Instead, Professor Malamud was a tall, slim young woman in her late twenties, whose long dark hair framed delicate features. Unlike the majority of people in Alsharif, Malamud seemed to eschew the togas in fashion, instead wearing a form-fitting, sleeveless tunic, and a pair of, yes, shorts. I noted that John’s eyes seemed to be focusing on their mid-thigh hem.