Authors: Daniel Syverson
The two men, King and old man, walked out
together. But as the men walked through the Great Hall, the old man did not
seem quite so old or frail, and the King did not feel quite so young and
invincible.
The king called the Sargent, who had been
waiting patiently outside.
"Give this man a horse, and rations of food
and water as he desires. And give him a letter with my personal seal, that none
shall disturb him on his journey." Then, without saying good-bye or
acknowledging the old man further in any way, he turned, and returning to his
chamber, pulled the great door shut behind him. He stood alone for a moment,
then slowly walked back to his throne.
There was much to consider.
* * *
And the people noted of the king his thoughtful
and introspective manner, and his successes, and the failures of those who
opposed him; and the respect of all, friends and enemies, was greatly
increased.
* * *
And the King never spoke of the visit. And none
dared ask.
However, it did not always go well along the
King's lineage. As one would imagine, some heirs were better than others. Some
maintained the discipline required, while others were free and loose with their
power and wealth. And it was true, there were those determined to not allow
the success of the Protectors. As a result, much wealth and power was
squandered, and even the personal power, pent up and increasing by generation,
was not what it could have been.
And there were successes. When one those enemies
of the crown was found, they were always handled with great speed, and ruthless
determination. The man was always and immediately killed; any relatives found
and killed, and all his belongings and homes sacked and burned. There could be
no record for them to pass along.
And so, like the tides of the ocean, the growth
and power of the Protectors ebbed and flowed, though in the long run, they were
always getting stronger. They wisely formed organizations that, although
members knew not the ultimate purpose, the organization itself served to
support and protect its current leader.
Money was funneled to many places, many people. Some
might collect funds for years before even a simple request was asked. Other
sources were used constantly, and were well rewarded.
Overall, though, the old man would have been
proud.
And the symbols slowly came of age, guiding the
heirs. All were amazed at the ability of the leaders to choose new products,
new technologies - knowing to choose those that would be successful versus
those that were not. And none ever knew that the symbols on that paper guided
them, symbols that meant nothing in the past, but now, were obvious.
* * *
Soon, there were very few symbols remaining. Clearly,
it was almost time. The last symbol was still unknown, making no sense, but
neither had the previous ones initially, though most were now household
symbols, known by all. Yet, by having that knowledge ahead of others, the
opportunity was there, and those opportunities were taken. It turned out that
these symbols provided advance knowledge that allowed the Protectors to make
great financial gains. It gave them the edge on new technology, and with it
they were able to stay one step ahead of the competition, and one step ahead of
those looking for them, and as always, they were adding to their coffers. In
effect, it was insider trading on a cosmic scale.
One last symbol remained, along with a sequence
of numbers, and with it, the Coming. Gerhard, Hans, and those in a tightly
bound inner circle combed the internet, newspapers, television - anywhere and
everywhere, waiting for an explanation of the final symbol. The numbers, they
knew. Any school age kid would know, now. Meaningless twenty years before,
again, the information was now common knowledge. 630.47.10.101. Obviously, an
IP address. A number that would have meant absolutely nothing to anyone in the
past, now so obvious. Who's? Would it be a person? An organization? Or just
another lead, a guide, someone to point the direction?
The number didn't yet exist. They could have
nothing to do with it. The owner of that address was fore ordained, and they
would have to wait and trust for it to appear. Periodically his people would surreptitiously
search the number, careful to leave no trace behind of that search, but it
always came back not found. They would wait.
It was almost time. When it arrived, this would
be the final knowledge as to the identity of the Proclaimer, the man the entire
organization had been built for all these years. It would provide the funds,
the personnel, the organization, and the contacts- all the necessary items for
the Chosen One to rule at the Coming. The final touch, the
coup de grace
,
would be when Hans, or the next leader, or the next, stood up in front of the
world as the Protector of the Chosen One. The eyes of the entire world would be
on this stage, and the power unleashed by the hand of the Protector would give
credence to the Chosen One.
It would be seen by all that the Protectors
controlled nature itself, and that Mother Earth and the stars above were
waiting to anoint the Chosen One. At that point, none would challenge; leaders
of countries great and small would submit. God himself would stand down.
If the Protector had accomplished his task, the
awe, the demonstrated power that would be shown as beyond, way beyond human
capabilities - a return to the long extinct power of the supernatural,
plus
the infrastructure installed gradually over the years - would be so complete,
so total, that the Protector would simply present the Chosen One. There would
be no campaigns, no elections.
How would He accomplish this? No one knew yet,
but if the preparations were complete and total, there would be no challenge. He
would simply walk in, demonstrate his power, and rule. Out of nowhere, a ruler.
* * *
The total domination prior to the Proclamation
had to be complete. The incredible responsibility for this and the rapidity
that events were falling into place was just beginning to dawn on Hans. His
powers had to be full, and controlled. There could be no mistake.
As the blue Ford Focus rental headed north, he
began to see the residual damage from the storm. Trees and branches were down,
and repair crews were all over. Com Ed trucks had already arrived from
neighboring states to assist with line repair, and you would be hard pressed to
find two license plates from the same area. Interspersed were trucks from the
county, state, and city, with crews cutting up downed trees with chain saws,
feeding small and medium branches into the chipper, cutting larger ones into eighteen
or twenty-four inch sections and stacking them for later pickup. A lot of
residents were out, cleaning up their own yards, or helping the neighbors. ROAD
CLOSED signs were all over, and when those ran out, orange cones were stretched
across the roads. In other cases, the tree laying across the road made the
point more clearly than any sign, and more effectively. The signs
did
seem redundant and pointless - if trees were blocking the road, it was closed,
sign or not.
Whatever had happened, it had happened here,
within the radius of the most severe damage. The highway was still closed as
crews continued to cut the semi into pieces small enough to haul. A few vehicles
involved with the freak (or was it?) storm and pileup were still along the side
of the road, awaiting the Dan-Car type tow trucks. Regular tow trucks couldn't
tow the mangled vehicles. They needed to be loaded, one by one, onto trailers.
He turned right, following the detour to go
around. Two blocks in a sign pointed left, but trucks were now blocking the
road, so he went one more block. Although he probably could have gotten
through, there were still a lot of people cutting branches in the street, so he
turned at the next block instead. The road was clear, but didn't go through, so
once more he continued. At the next corner, turning left, he made his way down
the street, skirting some trash cans that had blown and been left there, along
with a child's big wheel and a trampoline, partially wrapped around a large oak
tree, like a bandage, covering missing limbs.
Continuing north, the road curved right, and
then crossed I-90. The roads were clearer here, but getting back was getting
confusing. He tried to get back across I-90, but the next several streets didn't
work. Finally, he found a crossing road, but there was a NO LEFT TURN. Unbelievable.
Looking left and right, no cars were coming, so he turned left anyway. He hoped
God wasn't watching.
Well, God was probably tied up on other items,
but Jenna Roberts wasn't. She had just left the station, not two blocks away,
and caught the turn. With all the roads messed up, it wasn't a big deal, but the
car was a rental, and the driver probably not from around here. She thought she'd
better at least check things out. They might need help finding someone, or
possibly they were a looter. Either way, she needed to at least check it out.
She flipped on the squad's lights, and tapped
the siren. She saw the driver whip his head around, left and right, then into
the mirror. After that, turn signal and brake lights came on, and the car
rolled to a stop. Checking on her laptop, she confirmed it was a rental before
she walked up to the window.
"Good morning," she opened with, "Could
I see your license and insurance, please."
He reached into his wallet, and removed his
license and ID, handing them to her through the window. "I don't have any
insurance papers with me, this is a rental."
"Okay, could I see your rental papers?"
He handed them to her.
She looked closely at the license. "What is
this? What kind of license is this? Where are you from?"
"May I?", as he motioned outside. She
nodded. He stepped out of the car, as she stepped back.
"I'm Timothy Biazzi, and I'm here from the
Vatican."
She did a double take, and took another look at
the license and ID. Looked okay, but how the hell would
she
know what a
legitimate Vatican ID looked like? Figures. Nice looking guy, Italian, and he's
a priest.
"Well, that's a new one on me. What brings
you here, Father Biazzi?"
He laughed. "Not Father. I'm not a priest. I
just work for them. Big difference. Just ask my mother. She wanted me to be
one. A priest, that is. She still wants me to be a father someday. Father as in
small 'f', though I'm sure either would be fine with her.
She turned red. She should have paid more
attention. "Sorry. I should have known better. No collar or anything. Don't
know what I was thinking. So just what does bring you clear over here?"
He looked at for the first time, really noticing
her. Kind of cute when she was turning red like that. Plus, she actually looked
pretty good in uniform. Or maybe the uniform looked good on her.
As far as her question, he really couldn't really
go into it, so he just said, "I heard about the storm when I was visiting
Chicago, and curiosity got the better of me."
"Well,
Mr
. Biazzi, technically, the
reason I stopped you is that you turned left where it says not to, but
actually, I just wanted to keep an eye on out-of-towners that might not belong.
You know, looters and such." She pointed down the road to the sign. "But
I think we can get by with a warning, seeing as you're guest here and all. Besides,
getting a ticket here might leave Mrs. Biazzi with one too many disappointments
regarding her wayward son."
"I thank you for that kindness. Lord knows
Mama Biazzi, rest her soul, will be happier, though she never quite got over
the priest thing. 'You're still young. You're still single. You could still
make me proud'. Right up to the day she died. Anyway, I promise to be more
careful about those signs." A thought crossed his mind.
"Officer, if you don't mind, could you tell
me what happened?"
She gave him the 30 second version, as she had
several dozen times over the phone to friends and family.
"And were you around the other time?"
"Other time?"
"Yes, about, oh-" He paused. She would
have been a child, no, she probably hadn't even been born yet, "Oh, never
mind. It was before your time."
There was a pause, and she kind of cocked her
head at an angle. "Around 1976?" she asked.
"Wellllll, yes. How did you know?"
"Do you have a minute, Mr. Biazzi? I'd like
to tell you a quick story. She looked down at documents in her hand. "Oh,
here's your license and papers. Hang on to those. Anyway, my grandfather lives
here, uh, lived here in Roscoe. He was killed in this storm we just had. He
used to talk about it."