Farnborough, England
“Everybody up!”
Ian Wilder shielded his eyes from the bright barracks light and quickly got out of bed so as to not risk the wrath of the guards.
“Up!” the guard growled again, as he stomped toward one of the bunks whose occupant was known to be a very sound sleeper.
Ian was already half dressed.
The guard stopped beside the bunk of the sleeping man and smiled down sadistically. Then grabbing the edge of the bed, he threw it over, toppling both upper and lower bunks and the man to the floor. Having witnessed this event several times before, the woman from the upper bunk had moved well out of the way as soon as the guard approached.
It was still dark outside, without even a hint of dawn. Ian could only guess at the time. No one in the barracks had a watch. Every bit of their personal property had been confiscated when they were arrested. All that most of them had was one change of clothes and the four books on the New Age. Their only currency was the sexual favors they might do for the guards, for which they would be given some extra portion of food or a piece of soap or some bit of information or rumor from the outside.
Perhaps they were finally leaving, Ian thought.
The guard quickly confirmed his assumption. “Everybody get your stuff,” he said as he headed for the door. “The trucks’ll be here to take you home in fifteen minutes.”
A cheer went up from the whole barracks and people started shaking each others’ hands and slapping each other on the back. Ian Wilder slipped through the celebratory crowd and made his way to the latrine.
With only one brief stop for gas, the truck had been on the road for six hours, including passing through the Chunnel. None of the more than one hundred men and women crammed into the back of the truck had any idea where they were or where they were going, but it was soon obvious that they were not, as the guard had told them, going home. There were no windows, and air was circulated through a beveled system that let in no light. The only illumination came from two fixtures in the ceiling. A third light had gone out when they hit a bump shortly after leaving the camp. The only facilities were crude toilets placed at each end, which quickly exceeded their capacity.
They had no breakfast before they left, but despite his hunger and the smell and the crowded conditions, Ian felt himself drifting off to sleep. When he awoke, he had no idea whether it had been hours or only minutes. Apparently they had reached their destination, for the truck had stopped and from his position near the door he could hear voices outside and the sound of the door being unlatched.
“Everyone out!” a very masculine woman’s voice called in a French accent.
Ian was one of the first off the truck. He looked around as he got out but was unable to determine their location. Something about the place looked or perhaps felt like the region around Dijon and Mulhouse near the French border with Switzerland and Germany, though he couldn’t have said why he thought so. Wherever they were, they were definitely on another military facility, though this one was far more modern than the one they had left in England.
Ian and the others were herded around to the front of the truck and told to make two lines. As the fresh air filled his lungs, the pungent smell of human sweat and unbathed bodies was replaced by the delightful aroma of food cooking. Directly in front of him was a building from which the flavorful smells came. It was, he hoped, their goal — a mess hall.
Being one of the first in line, Ian was able to load his plate high and he eagerly ate everything. Quiet conversation was permitted but other than questions and guesses about where they were and where they were going, no one seemed to have much to say. This wasn’t unusual. Over the past several weeks in the barracks no one had talked much. A few had spoken of their hatred for those who had betrayed them: friends, neighbors, relatives. But no one spoke of what they had seen — the horror of the executions — though frequent screams and crying in the night suggested that all had been witness to similar events. And no one ever talked about the ones they had left behind — husbands, wives, children — when at the last moment, they like Ian, had accepted the communion rather than accompany their loved ones in death.
As Ian drank down the last of a glass of milk, he felt a firm tap of a rifle butt on his back. Looking around, the guard motioned toward the building’s back door, and then moved on, repeating the silent procedure as others finished their meals. Ian followed the guard’s direction and was taken outside to a fenced yard and allowed to walk around until about twenty others joined him. The guards then led the group through a gate and around to the front of the building where the truck still sat. They didn’t stop at the truck, however, but continued down the road and toward a cluster of buildings about a quarter-mile away, which Ian guessed was their destination. He was wrong.
Continuing past the buildings, they came to a parade ground on which perhaps two or three thousand French troops stood silently in formation. Considering all he had been through, Ian knew that any fate was possible here. He was relieved, therefore, to see that the soldiers appeared to be unarmed and that there were no guillotines in sight. Even so, the situation didn’t appear hopeful.
In the center of the parade ground stood a reviewing stand to which the soldiers’ attention seemed directed, and toward which Ian and the others were being taken. His heart sank as he realized what was happening. He didn’t know the specifics, but there was little doubt that they had been brought here to serve as some sort of spectacle. He wanted to run but there was nowhere to go. They were led onto the reviewing stand and directed toward a row of chairs. This seemed a rather congenial offer and Ian again wondered if his fear had been unfounded. After all, they had been provided with a good meal — the best he had had in months — and he was now certain the troops weren’t armed.
Suddenly there was a commotion to Ian’s left.
“Viva la France!” someone shouted. It was one of Ian’s companions. “Viva la Nouveau Époque! Viva la Christopher!” the man added. Apparently he had the same fears as Ian and hoped his display might ingratiate him to his captors. The idea must have seemed like a good one to some of the others because presently half a dozen stood and repeated the chant. Others joined in. Not wanting to be left out, Ian was about to do the same, but as he scanned the faces of the soldiers he saw no sign that the display was having the desired effect. There were a number of smiles, but they were not smiles of camaraderie but rather of disdain and amusement. Ian held his seat.
Failing to arouse a positive response, one by one the others ceased their refrain and quickly took their seats as well, hoping that their indiscreet behavior might be overlooked. Within seconds only the first man remained standing. Being the first and therefore the most conspicuous, he was committed to the attempt and, hoping that some variation of his chant might yet evoke the desired effect, he briefly tried several variations. Still floundering, his voice seemed to fail as he stood there dripping with nervous perspiration.
Ian didn’t look at him, nor did the others. No one wanted to be associated with him. The intense anxiety of the man’s situation found its way to his stomach and he was gripped by uncontrollable nausea and began vomiting his lunch onto the stage. The scene had apparently amused the guards who had let it go this far, but now one grabbed the man’s hair and jerked him back into his seat.
A moment later a car arrived, and someone called the soldiers to attention as a much decorated United Nations general with French insignia got out of the car and approached the reviewing stand. He was followed by a military aide and two other men in civilian clothes. Coming up the steps, the general went directly to the lectern to address the troops. The older of the two men in civilian clothes turned and faced Ian and the others and announced that he would be their translator.
The general gave a command, which the translator didn’t relay but which obviously was calling the soldiers to at ease. He then began in earnest.
“As you are no doubt aware,” the translator relayed, “over the next four weeks most of you will be deployed to the Middle East for what we believe will be a relatively short but strategically critical mission. I am certain that all of you will perform in a manner that will bring honor to this battalion and to France.
“As you know, each of you has recently acquired certain abilities which Secretary General Goodman has said will be vital to the coming conflict.”
Ian and his companions had been weeks without communication from the outside and so were unaware of the three signs. Nor had they received the benefit of the signs themselves except that most hadn’t gotten the sores since receiving the mark, and of those who had, the lesions were only minor. Thus they did not understand the nature of the recently acquired abilities to which the general referred.
“It’s no secret that our mission will be to bring down the walls of Petra upon our enemies. We anticipate, however, that some will escape the destruction. Mr. Warren Sardon,” the general continued as he motioned toward the younger man in civilian clothes, “who has just arrived from UN headquarters in Babylon, has come to demonstrate how your new abilities can be used when dealing with the KDP enemy in a one on one situation. I haven’t seen this myself,” the general added, “so I’m looking forward to this as much as the rest of you.” The general stepped away from the lectern and Sardon approached.
“Thank you, General Sonnier,” Sardon said. “I’m sure you won’t be disappointed.” Then turning to the troops, he began. “With the help of the volunteers behind me,” he said, obviously referring to Ian and the others. “We will . . .”
Sardon continued speaking but Ian didn’t hear him. His words no longer mattered. There was now no doubt: Ian understood that he was about to die.
The man stopped speaking and signaled to the guards to bring forward one of Ian’s companions. “Now, like the rest of you,” Sardon continued, addressing the soldiers, “I’d much rather do this to one of the KDP, but since we don’t have any KDP available,” he joked, “these men and women have agreed to help us with our demonstration. For those who may feel uneasy with this, let me note that all of these volunteers were, until recently, in collaboration with the fundamentalists. While they did accept the communion and the mark rather than face le rasoir national,[184] we and they have concluded that for their own betterment, they should be freed of the negative memories of this lifetime and be allowed to convey into their next incarnation with a clean slate.”
The guards went directly to the man who had vomited. “No! No!” he cried, as they pulled him to the front.
“It appears our first volunteer is having second thoughts,” Sardon chuckled. The man was dragged weeping to a point about six feet to Sardon’s left on the stage. To silence him, one of the guards finally held a gun to his head.
“Can everyone see okay?” Sardon asked. When he was satisfied all could see, he continued. “In the technique I’m about to demonstrate, I’m going to use both telekinetic power and, to aid in visualization and concentration, I’ll use my hand in a corresponding physical action. While it’s not necessary to use the physical aid, it is recommended, at least at first.”
With this, Sardon stepped from the lectern, turned and faced the still whimpering “volunteer,” standing about six feet away. Focusing his full attention on the man, he extended his right hand. Then, concentrating as he visualized the man’s heart, he slowly squeezed.
The volunteer abruptly ceased both his whimpering and his breathing as his face convulsed into a grotesque expression of pain. He would have collapsed altogether, but Sardon prolonged the performance and now used his telekinetic ability to hold the man erect so that no one would miss the demonstration.
Sardon closed his fingers tighter and began a slow twisting action, as the man’s head was thrown back, his body went limp, and blood began to pour from his mouth. Finally, when the man was obviously dead, Sardon released his telekinetic grip and let the body drop to the stage.
It was an impressive display and General Sonnier couldn’t help but applaud, which let the soldiers know it was alright to do likewise. Sardon appreciated the show of approval.
“Now,” he said, when the applause died down, “while we’d like to provide each of you with an opportunity to try this yourselves, we unfortunately have a limited number of volunteers. What we’re going to do then is select. . . Let’s see . . .” he said, interrupting himself long enough to turn and count how many ‘volunteers’ he had, “. . . eighteen, nineteen. Just nineteen?” he asked disappointedly, to no one in particular.
There was some confusion on the reviewing stand, and then General Sonnier advised that eighty-seven additional volunteers would be arriving momentarily.
“Wonderful!” Sardon said.
“Okay,” he continued, turning back to the troops, “we’ll select nineteen of you to come up and try it yourselves one at a time. I’ll stay here to comment and offer direction. Then the remainder of the volunteers can be divided among the individual units.”