Chapter 28

Rachel dragged herself to the door and braced to meet the day. There was no way to avoid being late, since it would take an hour to get to Salt City. Excuses would be needed. Excuses that would be better received if she was contrite as opposed to bitchy. She sighed deeply, kicked off her shoes and went into the bedroom. She dropped onto her knees beside the bed and rested her head on her clasped hands in the position of prayer.

“Oh God,” she groaned. Her thoughts tumbled madly. She was so tired. Her mind felt like a strobing fluorescent light, nothing was clear. She let the thoughts careen around for a while until one image solidified. It was Carlton.

“Oh God,” she breathed. Carlton. What an idiot. But since he was there in her head she prayed for him. Her thoughts began to line up in a more orderly row now, and she prayed for her parents, her brother, she remembered to ask forgiveness for her sins, gave thanks for… but then she got lost again and the images came in a rush.

“Oh God,” she cried plaintively. Dunning and Kruger. Her security detail in the unmarked sedan downstairs. Those guys definitely needed prayer. Salt City. Utah. The United States of America. The world.

“Oh God,” she sighed deeply, feeling the blood pulse in her temples. She wondered if her blood pressure was up. By now her body was relaxing and she sank lower, parting her knees, sliding back from the bed, lowering her head and stretching out her arms above her still resting on the edge of the bed.

“Oh God,” she whispered, then she remembered the elevator.

“Oh God!” panic rose up but she quelled it by remembering the situation. Friday was D-Day. She only had to make it to Friday. There was a reason for everything, God was in control. She only needed to have faith in Him.

“Oh God,” she prayed for her pastor and her church in Salt Lake City, then her church back in Washington DC. She prayed for the many friends and people she knew of who had quietly dropped out of society and made their way to camps like the one in southern Utah. Camps for people who rejected the World Monetary Union system and the registration tattoo.

“Oh God,” she thought again about her upcoming appointment on Friday afternoon. It would be Dunning and Kruger’s job to get her to the appointment as soon as possible after the linguistics conference ended on Friday afternoon. She prayed that God would intervene in some way that would mean that she didn’t have to do anything drastic. Killing them was an option, but, let’s face it, she reasoned, how could that be part of God’s will for her life?

“Oh God,” she was going to have to simply trust Him. She turned sideways, parallel with the edge of the bed, and stretched out her hands on the floor. She was still kneeling, and she spread her knees as far apart as she could as she lowered her body. Her hip popped in a satisfying way and she relaxed, prostrate, her forehead touching the cool floor.

“Oh God,” she sighed as she thought with swelling passion of the work she was doing with Biblio, the library computer. There was a reason for everything. If nothing else she was going to make sure that the Word of God lived on the mind of the most spiritual computer ever made. She prayed that she was right about Biblio, that the nature of his system being blood meant that he had a soul. The life is in the blood. She prayed fervently that she had understood right the scriptural teaching about the spirit and soul, that Biblio, even though he had been made by a man, could have a saving faith in Jesus Christ. It was a long shot she knew, but a sense of total peace calmed her mind.

“Oh God,” she whispered again, thanking Him for the Holy Spirit that had guided her to the place and the work that she was doing for the Lord.

“Oh God,” she breathed. She gave thanks for His mercy and grace, praised Him for the bird she could hear singing outside the window, and dozed off.

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Chapter 22

The President of the United States was starting to loose it. He had been on the go for the entire weekend in New York attending galas, banquets, town hall meetings and rallys. He had been smiling and projecting his sparkling persona so much that he was close to biting someone’s head off. Now finally back at the White House in D.C., he was desperate to get into his private quarters and relax, but he knew he was not going to get there without having to deal with his Chief of Staff. He took a deep breath. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

And there he was, with the grinning Mr. Smith. What was he doing here again?

“I know,” said the President, “you have a lot of things to catch me up on. You better make it quick, I’m not in the mood for this.”

“Just one thing really,” replied the Chief of Staff, “Mr. Smith?”

“Yes, Mr. President, Chief of Staff. I want to let you know that we are moving our units into position in the Salt Lake City area. A nuclear device is being delivered to the target area later in the week. We can have everything in place and timed for the clock tick that switches us over to world monetary union. Any delay beyond that in dealing with our situation in Southern Utah is going to lead to very difficult accounting for the resources that the, er, problem utilizes.”

“What a pleasant thought to end the day with.” The President shook his head.

“And here was me thinking that you had something important to tell me.” He looked at Mr. Smith who’s irritating smile didn’t even waver. He was pure evil. What makes a person like that? The tired President didn’t have the energy to argue, and the easiest way to make the two of them go away was to agree. He straightened himself up, tried to appear resolved and said,

“Very good. Proceed with the plan. Let me know as soon as you have all of our assets in position. Chief, make sure that Mr. Smith has all of the resources that he needs. Goodnight gentlemen, well done.”

They both seemed pleased with the outcome, and Mr. Smith’s smile managed to go up another notch.

The President detached himself from the group politely and made his way upstairs to his private suite. His wife was waiting with a knowing look on her face and open arms.

“Come here baby, you poor thing.”

He embraced her warmly and then released her. He tried a weak smile. He moved them inside the suite and made sure that the door was shut.

“There is something very, very bad happening. I don’t know what to do.”

His wife looked into his face with genuine concern. She scrutinized his forehead barcode.

“You’re starting to smudge baby. I need to work on your tattoo,” his wife said, “come tell me all about it.”

She led him into the bathroom, sat him down on the commode and got a bottle of rubbing alcohol, some cotton buds, and two Sharpie markers, one fine tip and one wider tip. He started to tell her about the plan to detonate a bomb on the Salt City domes, and the planned droid attack on the camp in Southern Utah. As he did, she carefully wiped the ink off the President’s forehead, dried the area, then began redrawing the barcode with the markers. She listened carefully and said nothing until she finished her task.

“There, good as new.”

“So, what do you think?” The President was still worried, but much relieved for having been able to tell his wife.

“My dad is in that camp. Other family too. You know that.”

“Yep.”

“So we have to do what we always knew we would have to do. Or we’re not the people that we always thought we were.”

“You’re right. I’m just wondering if there is way to save the camp too.”

“You’ll figure it out baby, you always do,” she gave him a warm smile.

“I love you. Thank you baby.”

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Biblio’s Blood – Chapter 1

It was an indefinable moment in a dimly remembered future that is neither near nor far away.  A radio chattered to itself distantly, until a blast of fanfare erupted and sent the idle drifts of thought scurrying for cover.  Carlton Feathers, working nearby, heard it and groaned.  The fanfare was accompanied by the cheers of a stadium crowd that was seething with anticipation, just as if the North Carolina Tarheels were in the final of the National Basketball Championship, the leading scorer was at the free throw line, one point down, 1 second on the clock, with a chance to win the game. Then the announcement began:

“Ladies and gentlemen, can I have your attention please!” he scored the first free throw and the pitch of the excitement rose.  It was as if the whole world was vibrating with the pulse of the crowd.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you.  Ladies and gentlemen, the time of waiting is almost over!” he scored the second shot, won the game, the buzzer rang and the crowd exploded into noise.

It took several moments for the roar to die down enough for him to continue.  “Yes, my friends, the door is about to open on the threshold of the next great step in our journey of human evolution,”  the announcer paused to allow another wave of very loud crowd euphoria,

“That we, as the human species, have ever attempted.” The noise of the crowd was so great again that he was shouting at the top of his lungs.

“Yes, my friends, the time is at hand.” he paused, savouring the moment, building his crescendo,

“We stand,” there was a tremble in his voice now as he was giving it everything he had,

“On the threshold of World Monetary Union!”  His voice carried above the crowd, and it brought the house down.

The insane applause was faded out, and a narrator came on to describe what would happen in the next few days, and to reassure everyone that they were in the best possible hands.  There was nothing in the world to worry about.  Everything was going to be all right.  World Monetary Union was finally here, and there was still one week left for every man, woman and child to get their financial affairs in order, register, and receive their WMU bar code tattoo.

Carlton had groaned when he heard the announcement because it was another reminder that he had not registered yet. There were times when he was a terrible procrastinator, and this was one such situation. He had left it so late to make inquiries about registering that the only appointment he could get was at 8 PM the following Friday. The deadline was 9 PM, so calling it down to the wire was an understatement. Technically it was no more complicated than filing an income tax return, yet for some reason it had become a huge psychological hurdle that he had to jump. Carlton had a problem with filing taxes too.

There was something about the whole system that made him nervous. He didn’t know why but it felt somehow wrong. Carlton had no idea that World Monetary Union and the registration barcode tattoo was linked to the fulfilment of an ancient Biblical prophesy, and he wouldn’t have paid any attention if someone had tried to explain it. To him it was more about loosing control over his money and assets. If anyone had told him that registering and receiving the tattoo would ensure that his soul would burn in hell until judgement day, he would have dismissed them as quaint and offered them a $20 bill.

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