“You are sure you don’t want a drink?” Jo asked.
Ethan and Rivka shook their heads.
“You know, this is sixty thousand dollars a bottle now,” Jo remarked, lifting his glass to study the sparkling lights of the Hong Kong skyline through his champagne. “I remember when it was only forty thousand a bottle. But then, inflation, global recession . . . it wreaks havoc with luxury items.”
Ethan smiled. “I wouldn’t know about that.”
Jo lifted an eyebrow. “Yes. Not many luxuries for you Jesus Remnant-type people?”
“No, not really. But that’s okay. The reason I’m here is to find out more about your underground economy and your system of barter and trade.”
“I know all about you, Mr. Ethan,” Jo said. “You are the disciple of Colonel Jordan.”
“Actually,” Ethan said, “more like a disciple of Jesus Christ. But I also consider it a compliment to ever be mentioned in the same breath as brave, brilliant men like Joshua Jordan or brave, brilliant women like his wife, Abigail.”
“And your people—all of these Jesus people in your group—they are how many now?”
“If you are trying to calculate the potential numbers that would be added to your financial structure, it’s millions upon millions who are coming to Christ. And when they do, they quickly realize the devilish direction that the whole Global Alliance is taking, including their BIDTag system. And they wonder why it took them so long to question a world government that electronically marks the human race. Ever since the Rapture, though, people are coming around.”
“Okay, so you’ve got impressive numbers. Which means I can make a decent profit off their transactions.” Jo eyed Ethan closely. “Though I’ve wondered about something, ever since my man Gikas cleared you for this meeting: Why didn’t you set up your own underground barter system?”
“We tried. A couple of our very sharp Remnant economists worked on it. But only on paper. They kept running into a practical roadblock.”
Jo broke into a grin. “Let me guess: your Remnant people are scattered everywhere. And are being systematically hunted, of course. So you need a buying-and-selling system among your people that is both instantaneous and global. To be one step ahead of the Alliance. That means a digital scheme, which requires the Internet. But the Alliance controls every Internet transaction.”
“Except for those inside the United States—the one country that is hanging on by a thread, still refusing to join the Alliance,” Ethan added. “Except for those transactions.”
“And the ones in my system,” Jo added with a smile. “My underground digital economy. As for America, well, that thread is about to break, I hear.”
“I would love to know how your system has managed to bypass the heavy hand of the Alliance.”
“A magician never reveals his secrets,” Jo replied with a laugh. “Didn’t Harry Houdini say that? The point is that his tricks worked. And so do mine. I can only tell you that I have managed to exploit a loophole in the Alliance economic control regulations. But you can ask me anything else about my financial masterwork.” He gave a sigh of delight as he gestured with arms open wide to take in the expanse of his super yacht and added, “It has obviously served me very well.”
Ethan was unimpressed. “I need some assurance that your underground economy is not tied to criminal elements. Drugs, prostitution, money laundering, kidnapping, any of that.”
Jo grew solemn and put his champagne glass down along with a half-eaten canapé. “I am a financial wizard. London School of Economics. And also a smart technology fellow. Stanford University. With honors. So I grow weary of that kind of question. This is no illegal money-laundering operation. Not some second-rate Ponzi scheme. Want to know the type of people who buy and sell in my economy? Business people who don’t trust this new global government. I can supply you with plenty of testimonials. Others are people who think their rights have been taken away. Some are the doomsday types who keep guns and gasmasks in their basement and grow their own vegetables. Some people join my system because they are afraid. Others just think it’s good business.”
He abruptly stood. “I will think on our meeting today. And will give some thought to allowing your Jesus Remnant people to join my buy-and-sell economy. I must admit, I admire their courage in not getting BIDTagged. Even if I don’t agree with their religion.” He reached out his hand to shake with Ethan. “I will let you know my decision.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
JERUSALEM, ISRAEL
Micah and his fellow Jesus followers clustered in a corner of the grounds of the Yad Vashem memorial, near the long lane of trees that had been planted through the decades in memory of Jewish heroes and their protectors.
Earlier that day the group had left Rabbi ZG’s apartment in the Old City section of Jerusalem. Now they awaited the arrival of a few others—members of the core group, the most trusted members of the Jerusalem Remnant. A few thought holding a Jesus meeting in the open at the Holocaust memorial grounds was risky. On the other hand, some of the secretive places in the old Jewish Quarter were now being regularly raided. Neither the Global Alliance police nor its peacekeeping force that occupied Jerusalem had ever come up there to the memorial. The same went for the Alliance drone-bots. Micah had reliable information that Prime Minister Sol Benksy had negotiated with the Alliance to make that entire area a “no-fly/no-patrol zone.”
A few stragglers jogged their way over to join the group. Micah felt his Allfone watch buzz on his wrist. He looked at the square miniscreen and noticed a message icon in the corner. It was from Rabbi ZG. He put his finger to the icon and the message appeared.
Micah, important news. Bishop Dibold Kora is giving another of his global addresses. You can get it on channel 3-Q. Started at 11.
When Micah looked at the time function on his watch, he realized Bishop Kora was already fifteen minutes into his speech. He told everyone to crowd around him as he pulled out his pocket microweb TV and tabbed onto channel 3-Q. Bishop Kora appeared on the screen, a man in his fifties with a head of curly silver hair and a smile that always seemed to be permanently pasted onto his face. He was decked out in his usual ecclesiastical dress—red velvet jacket, black shirt, and baby-blue clerical collar.
Years before, Kora had made huge headlines when he managed to forge an international coalition of the world’s religions, getting them behind the Alliance’s international treaty on global warming and environmental protection, declaring that the “defense of Mother Earth is the highest spiritual duty.” In the wake of all that, he’d created the One Movement.
But few could have foreseen the heavy-handed legal enforcement that would follow, including international takeovers of industries in noncompliance. Even companies in Chicago, Micah’s boyhood city, where he and his parents had been living before they ended up moving to Israel. But then, neither Micah nor his family could have imagined the climactic events that would follow their immigration to Israel: an ill-fated invasion of that tiny nation by a Russian-Arab League army. A war that looked impossible for Israel to defend against, until an amazing rescue occurred—an event nonbelieving journalists and pundits tried to ascribe to a mere “cataclysm of nature.” That is when Micah and his parents started realizing that something utterly stupendous and supernatural was happening—something of biblical proportions.
Equally miraculous was the disappearance of millions of Christians around the world. And the troubling capitulation of Israel’s prime minister to overtures by Alexander Colliquin that resulted in a covenant that promised lasting peace in Israel and Jewish control over the Temple Mount so that a Jewish temple could be built there.
It was all coming true—not only the Old Testament prophecies, but also the ones in the New Testament that Micah and his parents had been secretly studying. Christ as the long-awaited Messiah? By then it was undeniable. Micah couldn’t help thinking back on all of that as he studied Bishop Kora, who was wrapping up his address on the little screen.
&n
bsp; And so, at long last, it is here. A seminal moment in the history of this planet. A coming together of all the world’s religions in a single statement of common faith. And so we have called it “Our Common Faith,” a document unifying our belief and settling our former differences. A promise of an end to religious strife, bigotry, and ethnic racism. And an end to fear and mistrust. By this common faith, every one of you can become a spiritual king or queen, a prince or princess, royalty over the destiny of your own soul. Churches, synagogues, mosques, temples, and centers of worship around the world have begun to embrace it. The long journey of man and woman away from the intolerant and barbaric beliefs of the past and those dangerous, prehistoric allegiances to religious texts and books we once thought were inspired, but which in the end have only caused dissension and strife and, yes, even holy wars and bloody crusades of all kinds.
Kora reached out his hands to the unseen billions watching him.
Won’t you join me? Join me in rallying your neighbors, your friends, and fellow members of your worship communities? Remember, some of our global citizens are, sadly, still very reluctant to become part of this movement. We respect that. Those who do not feel comfortable with religion are still permitted the full freedom not to join with us. But then, there are also those—the religious zealots, the cultists who preach this dangerous lie against humanity called the Rapture of the Christians—who have sought to conceal the mass suicides and mass murders of their fellow Jesus worshipers. They say they exalt life, yet they embrace death. They say they are enlightened, yet they blindly obey Bible writings from thousands of years ago. Imagine the risk they pose to peace on earth and good will toward mankind. We grant them the right to their freedom of opinion, as delusional as it is. But we do insist that they be exposed to the truth. For, my friends, imagine a world where such deluded persons can receive counseling and help and an opportunity to be healed from their spiritual disability. Please, won’t you let us know who they are, so we can provide them with some information and personal help?
Kora’s image on the screen was replaced by a web/Allfone address:
[email protected].
As Micah looked on at the screen and the web address, it was clear to him that the word report was not intended to be a noun, but a verb.
Kora added a final thought before ending the telecast.
For those of you who care enough to share the identity of someone in this kind of need, you will be blessed with a generous contribution credited directly to your digital CReDO account. This is our way of thanking you and helping you in this time of global economic distress. Thank you. And may the Common God of our Common Creation bless you all. Have a beautiful day.
After Micah clicked off his pocket web TV, he studied the faces of his fellow Jesus Remnant members. He pointed to the screen of his little TV, but was only able to utter three words: “Blasphemies from hell—”
A distant sound stopped him from finishing his sentence. A drone-bot was cruising overhead. An instant later several dozen Global Alliance police charged at them from several directions, their weapons drawn.
Someone cried out, “They’ll drag us all to a Jesus Ghetto!”
Micah’s mind whirled. Colliquin and his dreaded Alliance must have betrayed Prime Minister Bensky. He turned furtively around, three hundred sixty degrees, looking for a way of escape. But found none. The police were almost within reach.
Then Micah spotted two transport trucks approaching, each with the blue-and-white Global Alliance insignia. The trucks drove quickly down the tree-lined lane toward them and slammed to a stop. Blue-helmeted police surrounded Micah’s group as the drivers of the trucks got out and opened up the big double doors of the transport vehicles. It was clear what was going to happen next.
Closing his eyes and lifting his hands, Micah cried out, “Father in heaven, by the blood of Jesus Christ Your Son and through the power of the Holy Spirit and by Your matchless might, protect us this day.”
The commander of the Alliance unit stepped forward and called to them loudly with his French accent, “Don’t be ridiculous. Stop your silly prayers. Come with us, all of you, and you will not be harmed.”
Micah took in the frightful sight: more than thirty armed men in Alliance uniforms, with their weapons poised and aimed. One of Micah’s men stepped forward. Micah called out to him, “Don’t do it. Our God is faithful.”
The commander pointed to Micah and called out an order to the two officers standing next to him. “Arrest him for insurrection. He’s a leader.”
Two Alliance cops pointed their extended-clip Berettas at Micah’s chest as they stepped toward him. That was when Micah felt the presence of something—or someone—brushing past him on either side from the midst of his group. Two men strode toward the Global Alliance police. The hair stood up on the back of Micah’s neck as a numinous shiver came over him. There was something unspeakably powerful about these two. One was tall and magisterial, the other short and stocky with a thick neck that was hairy on the backside. Both were bearded and they wore rough robes that looked like they had been woven out of camel hair; the robes were gathered at the waist with coarse rope.
The short man held up his hand, palm out toward the Alliance forces. When he spoke, it was like the roar of a great lion, and the sound of it seemed to have a force that could stop even one of the new high-speed “qwiktrains” in its tracks.
“In the name of the Son, the Holy Lamb of God, the slain One who rose again, and in the name of the Father who is Lord of the universe, I command you: you shall not pass!”
As the stranger in the coarse robe spoke those words, a shimmering wall of fire rose up like a curtain from the ground. It created a barrier between the Alliance police and Micah’s group.
The commander screamed for his troops to commence firing. All of the barrels of their guns burst smoke as the troops let go with a volley of gunfire aimed directly at Micah and his Jesus followers. Micah winced, half closing his eyes. He was about to be executed. But when nothing happened, he opened his eyes again. He saw, in the curtain of fire, the bullets hanging in midair, then melting into little globs and falling to the ground.
The short man in the rough-hewn robe wasn’t finished. He balled up both of his fists and then in one motion tossed his hands forward, fingers open, toward the squad of slack-jawed Alliance police. The entire group of armed men were lifted up into the air and blasted fifty feet back, where they then landed onto the ground in a tangled human heap as if they had just been dropped to earth by the force of an EF-5 tornado.
The two men in robes turned to face Micah, and the tall one pointed down toward the Old City below, where Rabbi ZG’s apartment was. Micah nodded, understanding exactly what was meant even though it had not been spoken in words.
“Yes, I will take you there,” he muttered, still numb from what he had just witnessed. He looked over his wide-eyed group, all of them staring in shock and disbelief.
Leading his followers, Micah strode down the hill toward the Old City; as he walked, the curtain of fire continued to surround and protect the entire group of Jesus Remnant followers as the stunned troops on the ground began to regain consciousness.
The two bearded men strode solemnly and silently behind Micah.
It was then that Micah remembered something, and as he did a shivering sense of awe overcame him. He remembered the words of Rabbi ZG and the Bible prophecy he had spoken of. Now Micah was certain of it.
They’re here.
TWENTY-NINE
U.S. SENATE
Washington, D.C.
President Hank Hewbright sat in an ornate wingback chair that had been brought into the Senate chambers specifically for his testimony. The chair was positioned on a slightly raised platform so the chief justice could have a clear, unobstructed view of the witness. And the witness could look up and see Chief Justice Straworth.
Hewbright, during the direct examination conducted by attorney Harry Smythe, had given a long and detailed e
xplanation of his decision to issue an executive order to all branches of the military and to every federal department and agency following the Senate’s vote ratifying the Global Alliance’s so-called treaty. His order directed the Pentagon and those federal agencies to “resist cooperating with both the spirit and the letter of the Global Alliance document that was approved by the Senate, and that wrongly purports to a lawful treaty, and that the Senate wrongly presumed to have been within its jurisdiction and powers to ratify.”
Everyone knew the president’s reasons and the constitutional and legal basis for his decision. But now, in cross-examination, prosecuting attorney Corbit Hibbings submitted Hewbright to a withering battery of questions, most of them designed to extract admissions from the president that he had full knowledge his decision—even if it was constitutional—to buck the Global Alliance might end up causing the financial collapse of America because of the Alliance’s retaliatory worldwide boycott. That he knew his decision might even risk a civil war breaking out in the nation’s streets as a result.
“And you,” Hibbings called out in a powerful voice, “were willing to place the fate of this nation on an altar of high principles—your personal principles—at the risk of destroying the very nation that you were sworn to protect?”
“These are not just my personal principles,” Hewbright replied softly. “They were shared by others.”
“Oh, you mean the Founding Fathers, I presume?”
“Yes, every one of them, I believe.”
“So your defense here today, in this trial, is that your principles were shared by a small group of men who have been dead for two hundred years, some of whom held slaves and didn’t see the benefit in granting the right for women to vote? You mean those men?”
“Not just them,” Hewbright replied.
“Then who?” Hibbings boomed out, loud enough that his voice reached the gallery. “By all means, name names, Mr. President.”