Redemption of Light (The Light Trilogy) (43 page)

“How could you obey those orders, Tahn?” he whispered tautly to himself. “Didn’t you know what was going on?”

Jason fumbled with his empty brandy glass, turning it so the lamplight danced in the facets. Is that why Tahn had committed treason? Had he finally realized what the government was doing and couldn’t bear it?

Jason ran a silent calculation in his mind. How many deaths had Tahn been responsible for because he loyally followed orders? A half million? A million? Had he finally balked at the level of punishment the Magistrates continually ordered him to inflict on innocent civilians?

A sudden sympathy for the “traitor” thumped in Jason’s breast. If he’d been in Tahn’s place, he might have done the same thing.

“Why don’t cruiser officers ever research the history of the planets they’re ordered to destroy?”

But he knew the answer. No one had the time. The Magistrates kept battle cruiser crews so busy they couldn’t spare an extra day to sift through the vast array of clandestine files, or to decipher the infinite number of security classifications which made those files nearly impossible to find in the ocean of records.

He gazed at the com screen through half-lidded eyes. These files, for example, were not classified under the easy-to-find planet names—nor were they cross-referenced. If a captain didn’t know the data would be under the obscure heading of:
Neurobiological anomalies in inferior species,
he or she would never think to pull up the file.

Jason swiveled around and curiously examined Amirah’s serene and beautiful features. The soft lamplight landed like a golden scarf across her upper torso, playing wildly in the braid on her purple sleeves. A deep admiration and respect for her warmed him. How had she guessed where the Magistrates had hidden the information?

Out of curiosity, he instructed the com unit to list all the files she’d requested from Palaia this evening. A torrent appeared, many with strange foreign names, some with special code accesses required. He wondered what mysteries they held. He tried to access a file called:
Fideles,
but to no avail. He couldn’t even get the com to respond. Next he tapped in a request for:
Peccavi.
Nothing. Searching through the array of peculiar files with classified codes, he at random selected:
Raziel.

A brilliant flash lit the screen. Jason jumped. His heart pounded. The com flared a red warning and demanded:
IDENTIFY REQUESTER.

He took a deep breath to steady himself and typed: JASON MICHAEL WOLOC, FIRST LIEUTENANT: EIN-9171676.

STATE REASON FOR REQUEST?

Jason scowled. “What the hell does that mean?” He input: ON NEED TO KNOW BASIS—SECURITY OF
SARGONID.

STATE LEVEL OF EMERGENCY?

Jason subvocally cursed the machine. The com wanted him to delineate whether it was a minor emergency: level 1, or extreme danger: level 5. No matter what he answered, if he gained access as a result, the ship would automatically log the entire com dialogue and shoot it to Palaia the instant they exited vault. All level 5 com entries went directly to Slothen’s office.

Of course, there are so many level 5 reports these days that Slothen might not review this one for weeks.

He took a deep breath and held it, bolstering his courage, then input: LEVEL 5.

The com fluttered and the red warning light faded. In bold blue letters the com requested:
DEFINE STATUS OF CAPTAIN AMIRAH M. JOSSEL? MENTALLY INCOMPETENT OR DEAD?

He glanced surreptitiously at her. The blue light from the com cast an azure halo over her face. She did look pretty pale. “You’re being an idiot,” he whispered to himself. “This could get you court-martialed or worse.” He typed: DEAD.

The com fluttered and went blank, returning him to the basic menu of files.

He shook his head incredulously. “That’s a ‘Request Denied,’ if I ever saw one.”

He considered the ramifications, then began again. This time when the com asked him to define Amirah’s status, he typed: MENTALLY INCOMPETENT.

CAPTAIN PRESENT IN ROOM?

AFFIRMATIVE.

ENTER EMERGENCY BYPASS COMMAND CODE.

“Oh, this is too much!” He had to bypass the entire com security system to gain entry? What sort of information did this file contain? Only captains possessed the bypass code, but when Amirah had disappeared, been temporarily granted the privilege. He input: 8167211673-ALKUM.

CODE ACCEPTED. INPUT CLANDESTINE CROSS-REFERENCE AND PROCEED.

“Clandestine cross-reference? Who the hell knows that?”

He abandoned the file and felt better. Since he hadn’t actually gained access, the ship would discount the entry attempt.

Jason quietly got to his feet and retrieved Amirah’s blanket from the floor. He longed to stay, but he’d pushed his time limit already, he had to get back to the bridge. He spread the blanket over Amirah as gently as he could, trying not to wake her.

Before he left, he found a crystal sheet and scribbled:

Please review the file on Jumes and numbers 2-3 on Tikkun. “I’m on duty on the bridge in five minutes, but I’d like to talk to you when you wake up.

Thanks.

Jason

On the way out, he checked the thermostat. She always complained about being cold on the bridge. He threw her a fond look. More than once, he’d turned up the heat there, too—and heard about it in no uncertain terms from every male officer on duty.

He altered the temperature to a warm sixty-five and hit the patch to exit into the hallway.

Emon huddled in the warm petrolon guts of Satellite 4, gazing up at the tiny rip in the fabric overhead. The gray system of artificial tunnels formed a web around him. Soldiers filled the maze, their whispering echoing like the hissing of serpents in the confined spaces.

Emon glanced at Arikha. The little woman crouched beside him in the darkness, her dark hair gleaming as blackly as old blood around her pale face. She peered out at the night-clad plains where enemy campfires blazed. Beyond, General Ornias’ military headquarters glittered, its mirrored buildings reflecting the streetlights so that it flared like a roaring wildfire.

“Arikha,” Emon whispered. He reached over and gripped her frail wrist. “You don’t have to do this anymore. We’re close now. The gate to the dungeon is just over the next hill.” He gestured to Palaia, floating in space beyond. “It’s too dangerous for you to go out there!”

Arikha ruined so that her face was silhouetted against the background of stars. Her eyes possessed an eerie calm. “I have to, Emon. God protects me. I’m not afraid.”

Emon grunted something profane and pleaded, “Arikha, listen to me. We’ve scouted the area as best we can, but we’re not really sure where that next tunnel comes up on the surface. It could be right in the middle of some blue beast’s tent.” He tightened his grip. “Don’t do it. Not tonight. I have a bad feeling about this.”

Arikha smiled and Emon felt that the sun had risen to shed its grace on him. His soul seemed to swell beneath that strong gaze. “Arikha, please. Not tonight.”

“The Mashiah’s coming, Emon. We have to prepare the way. No matter what happens to me, you have to lead our forces. You can do it, Emon. Just wait for the sign.”

“What sign?”

Arikha’s fingers trembled. She closed them into a fist and Emon could see the terrible fear on her face. “The skies, Emon. Look to the skies. Legend says the ship has the sacred shape. You have to wait until you see it to attack. And right now, tonight, we have to push these Magisterial dogs back, so that when the time is right, we can kill them all. I have to go.” She patted Emon’s hand and clasped her rifle before edging forward and scrambling out through the rent.

“Arikha, wait!”

Emon grabbed for her robe, but she slipped away. Emon watched her walk like a dark specter out into the midst of the enemy camp. Arikha’s powerful voice wafted on the cool midnight wind, rising to roll over the camp.
“Now! Hurry! The Kingdom of Heaven has come!”

Hearing her, Giclasian beasts rose from where they warmed themselves by the fires, looming like huge black squid against the sky. A dark muttering of intergalactic lingua speared the night. Soldiers shouted and raced for her.

Arikha ran, preaching, leading her forces in a desperate battle to push the Giclasians back a few hundred feet off the hilltop.

Emon lifted his hand and furiously waved his soldiers forward. “Come on,” he called. “Let’s hit them hard this time. Harder than we’ve ever hit them! Arikha’s got them running for us. Let’s go!”

A wave of humanity crawled forward. They poured out over the face of the false alien world, firing blindly into the torrent of blue bodies that ran toward them.

Emon raced across the camp. All around him, screams rose to wails. The night ran with blood, both blue and red. Streams of it soaked Emon’s boots and brown livery until it stuck like glue to his chilled flesh.

He fought and hacked his way throughout the night, until his arms ached and his head reeled. But they’d broken the resistance. Enemy soldiers flooded toward the military headquarters, their purple uniforms glowing in the gray rays of dawn.

Emon locked his trembling knees and squinted at the bloody battlefield. Most of his forces had already fled back into the hive of the substructure. Only a few hearty men and women wandered the abandoned encampment, collecting rifles, and charge packs. One man tugged relentlessly on the boots on a fallen comrade, tears streaming down his face.

But they had no choice. Supplies, including clothing, were in great demand. They could trust nothing the Magistrates dropped now. The food packages that had fallen from the sky weeks ago had been laced with some potent poison. The poor souls who’d consumed it, against his pleas, had died horribly. If only Arikha had been here then. She’d have….

“Arikha?”

He ran for the nearest opening, shoving people out of the way to get down into the darkness. “Arikha? You! Yes, you. Have you seen Anpin? Where is she?”

The man’s eyes went wide. “I haven’t seen her.”

Emon spun around and waved his arms frantically. “Hurry. Everyone, start searching. We have to find Arikha!”

A new tidal wave of bodies rushed toward him, flowing down and around, people shouting and passing messages through the maze.

Arikha squirmed to tilt her head to watch the sunrise. The huge ruby ball lifted through a haze of lemon-colored mist over the distant Horns of the Calf on Palaia. The rocky prongs spiked the sky this morning—like a promise.

Arikha smiled.

The broken bodies of hundreds lay in twisted piles near her. The cardamom scent of Giciasian blood spiced the moist dawn air. From where she lay, she could see the hideous face of the beast who’d shot her in the early hours. Dead, the blue monster still seemed to grimace at her.

Arikha laughed—a dry rasping sound. She’d lain for hours feeling her blood soak into the wet dirt. She knew the wound in her back was fatal for it had severed her spine, low, near the base. She couldn’t move her legs.

But it was all right. She …

“There’s one!” a rough Giciasian voice shouted.

Arikha struggled to turn her head. A huge blue beast trudged toward her, sidestepping ruined tents and mounds of earth kicked up by mortar explosions. His azure face and ruby red mouth shone ghastly gray in the early morning light.

Arikha smiled up weakly. Behind the enemy soldier, the ball of the sun shaded pink, like a rose petal opening in the yellow mist. Another man, a human, strode up. And she knew him instantly. Dressed in his general’s uniform, his cold lime green eyes bored into Arikha. She gathered all of her energy and spat at him.

“Yes,” the general observed. “That’s her.” He waved over one of the Giciasian beasts. “Take her to Palaia. Creighton and Mundus will be waiting.”

Arikha’s body went limp as she felt cold alien hands slip beneath her shoulders and knees.

CHAPTER 45

Nathan stood in the cool shadows of the crowded courtyard before the gray stone Tower of Phaesel. Three entire legions of bronze-suited cavalrymen pranced around the area, spitting at the crowd or calling obscenities. Nathan kept his right hand hidden, tucked beneath his brown tunic, tightly gripping his knife. This day—
this blazingly hot day of Nisan the fourteenth!
—the fate of Yisroel would be decided.

Wisps of brown hair had fluttered lose from his rawhide tie to dance over his face. He brushed them away, tucking them behind his ears. Hoots and shouts tore the world around him. The stench of dirty sweating bodies rode the wind like the breath of carrion birds. A thousand must have packed the Praetorium. Twenty feet in front of Nathan, the purple curtain which shrouded the door to the tower hung closed. A dais had been set up for the famed trial which had brought people flocking in from all over the region.

Nathan’s whole body chilled with fear. He looked around him, noting the positions of his fellow zealots. The twelve of them formed a rough circle around the perimeter of the crowd. Most of his comrades lounged lazily back against the low stone walls near the numerous exits, making jokes with the yokels. He gave a slight nod to each as their glances met. Yeshwah, their leader and friend, had been captured the day before, tried and condemned for the murder of a Roman centurion. But today, on this searing spring day—the new Procurator, Herod Antipas, who’d been pulled from the province of Galeel to replace the murdered Lucius Pontius in Yudea, would have to make a choice. It was an established custom to free one condemned prisoner on the eve of Pesach.

Nathan and his comrades waited—for if Antipas made the wrong choice, they’d certainly kill everyone present if necessary to free their friend.

“Please Adonai,” he prayed quietly. “Let Herod throw Yeshwah into our arms and we’ll be on our way forever. I
hate
this cursed Romanized city. We’ll never come back!”

The crowd shifted, moaning and shaking fists as one of the lay members of the Sanhedrin, Yohannan ben Zakkai, dressed all in white, marched haughtily into the court. He had a sharp nose and ears that stuck out. His black hair was primly knotted at the base of his skull. Guards dragged two men behind him, Ben Panthera—bastard son of a Roman soldier—and Yeshwah. Nathan’s heart stilled as he gazed upon his lifelong friend. Yesu had been beaten badly. His right eye was a massive blue mound and dried blood still clotted the long strands of dark hair that draped over his dirty black livery. Yeshwah’s good eye roamed the crowd, noting the positions of each of his men. A bare smile of gratitude and relief touched his bruised mouth. Desperation filled Nathan as he met Yesu’s imploring gaze—he straightened, lifting his chin high in a silent promise he knew his friend would understand. Yeshwah nodded and Nathan’s fingers tightened around the worn hilt of his knife.

They’ve hurt you, Yeshwah. They’ll pay! I promise.

On this day, the Eve of Pesach, not a single pious man or woman walked the streets. They were all home, sacrificing lambs, making preparations for the great holy celebration which would begin at nightfall. Only the most filthy of the society’s dregs populated the sun-drenched courtyard: slinking beasts from the Decapolis, Greek-speaking Syrians, some Canaanites and Idumaeans and a few, very few, derelict Yehudim.

Ben Zakkai, swine that he was, knelt on the dais and waited. In a few moments, the hideously fat figure of Herod pushed through the purple velvet curtains shrouding the door. A prolonged gasp went up from the crowd. Dressed in a regal purple robe which pulled tightly around his bulk, he looked like an obscenity. Another man, tall and rail thin with red hair, pushed through behind him. Nathan recognized the man, Herod’s interpreter, Caius Jamaeus. Antipas waddled out onto the dais, sneering disdainfully at the groaning crowd.

“Great Epitropos,
Vale,
Caesar to be!” Ben Zakkai patronized. “I bring you the indictment for Yeshwah ben Yosef, who is blasphemously called the Mashiah.”

The howling rabble’s anger burst wide. Men shoved each other and women screeched. Everywhere, raised fists slashed the dry searing air. Herod slumped into his chair and took the rolled up scroll. He waved angrily to his centurions who dotted the walls, the gardens, the courtyard itself, and they rode forward on their horses, swinging their swords, shouting, “Shut up, you imbeciles! Shut up before we kill you all for the filth you are!”

The crowd quieted. Dark eyes went wide, staring expectantly at the dais and Antipas. But Nathan’s eyes remained upon Yeshwah. His friend staggered, his knees too weak to hold him up. Two of the Syrian menservants rushed forward and gripped his elbows to support him.

Nathan’s soul ached. He wanted to scramble up on that stage instantly and free his friend. But he’d be dead before he’d gone three paces. He forced his feet to be still. He had to wait … wait….

Herod grumbled something inaudible to his interpreter and Jamaeus took the scroll from his hand and read it aloud. The indictment accused Yeshwah ben Yosef—known throughout the countryside as Ben Panthera—of being guilty of the crime of sedition, of stirring the people up against the Roman rulers, and of claiming to be a king, which constituted treason.

Herod shifted his bulk to a more comfortable position in his chair. Three servants with palm leaf fans assiduously blew his scraggly brown hair out of place. Herod lifted an authoritative fat hand and fluttered it about to quiet the crowd, then he bellowed, “You! Yes, you
amme kaddishe elyonim,
God’s chosen bastards,” he chuckled disdainfully. “Look at these men.” He pointed to the two prisoners.

The crowd quieted and looked, their eyes almost bugging out as they compared Ben Panthera and Yeshwah. Panthera, dressed in white, gazed down over the crowd with a serene detachment, as though already forgiving them for condemning him to death—
mad, utterly mad,
Nathan thought. Yeshwah had his teeth gritted. His eyes darted with fiery contempt over everything Roman: Herod, the guards, even Ben Zakkai—a gutless romanized Yehud!

Nathan filled his lungs to bursting and watched in a frenzy, waiting, waiting. Matthya had edged in closer to Yeshwah, standing only ten feet away.

Herod lifted the scroll and slashed the air with it. “You know the way it works,” he cried. “I give you your choice. Who shall I free?” A cruel grin came over his face. He turned to Ben Panthera.
“Yeshwah ben Yosef—
called Ben Panthera by you jealous fools—who declares himself Mashiah and King.” his bloated hand moved down.
“Or Yeshwah Bar Abbas?”

The crowd surged forward in a foul-smelling wave and had to be beaten back by the Roman soldiers. “We want Bar Abbas!” the assembly screamed and shrieked, shaking their fists.
“Bar Abbas! Bar Abbas! Bar Abbas!”

Nathan almost wept with gratitude. He screamed along with them and carefully checked where his men were. They’d moved in, closer to the dais, just in case they needed to spring up on that platform and slit a few throats to free their friend. Yeshwah braced his legs to hold himself up. His eyes met Nathan’s and they exchanged a silent communication of overwhelming relief.

Though the sun had been blightingly hot, a sudden wall of dark clouds rolled over Yerushalaim. blotting out all light. A subdued charcoal hue dimmed the world. Nathan licked his chapped lips, looking around uneasily. He felt almost as though God were watching, orchestrating this bestial proceeding.

Herod screamed shrilly, “And what shall I do with this madman who calls himself the Mashiah?” He thrust out an arm at Panthera.

The roar of the crowd was deafening.
“Crucify him! Crucify him! Crucify him!”

Herod’s extended hand trembled and his eyes grew wide with fear. Nathan blinked hard, shaking his head when he saw a dark shadow loom on the wall behind Herod. It seemed to swell, forming into a gigantic monster. Nathan caught his breath and fell back a step, his hand clutching his knife hilt as he glanced around—no one but him seemed to see it! No one screamed. No one pointed. The crowd’s gaze was riveted solely on Herod. For a long, inexplicable moment, Herod let his fist hover in the air, as though frozen in time. He cocked his head. Nathan tensed.
What’s happening?
A soft whimper rippled through the assembly, then they went silent again.

The shadow rose over Antipas’ fat head and dispersed down through the assembly like a watery plague of night. It seemed to linger around Nathan and he thought he felt…
what? …
some sense of love and concern. Then it vanished.

Herod suddenly lurched to his feet to sway like a drunken man. He stared wildly at his prisoners. Throwing out his barrel chest, he glared at Ben Panthera. “Are you a King?” he shouted.

Panthera gazed at him in a kindly way. “You say so.”

Herod took a stumbling step forward, his eyes blazing with an unholy light. “What does that mean?” he shouted. He gestured to the frenzied crowd.
“They
say so, not
me!’

Ben Panthera only bowed his head in silence.

Half-staggering, Herod went to glare up into the face of Yeshwah Bar Abbas. In a whisper that carried like smoke on the wind, he hissed, “Are
you
a King?”

Yeshwah’s face was as still as stone when he replied, “No.”

“Are you the Mashiah?”

“Every man who finds Truth is a mashiah.”

Herod threw back his hideous head and laughed raucously, holding his blubbery belly. “Are you saying that every man has it in him to be the hand of God?”

Yeshwah straightened slowly. The hot wind blew his dark hair in veils over his face. “Oh, yes. Every one to the very last.”

The smile on Herod’s face faded like dust in the wind. He stared solemnly at Yeshwah. “What,” he asked so softly he could scarcely be heard, “is truth?”

Yeshwah’s nostrils flared. He moved his weight to his other foot. Boldly and loudly he answered, “Everyone who isn’t deaf knows the Truth when he hears it! I came to bear witness to the Truth!”

Pride and fear welled in Nathan. But what was Yeshwah doing, shouting the teachings of the Qumran Dawn Bathers? These poor ignorant barbarians couldn’t understand the depth of what he was saying! Why did he try? It just might get him killed!

Herod frowned and a look of pain and anguish came over his face. He stepped forward, getting closer to Yeshwah.
“What is … truth?”
he demanded again.

Yeshwah struggled to throw off the hands of the servants who held him. When they released him, he spread his legs and clenched his fists at his sides, daring the world to contradict him. “Truth?” he said in an orator’s voice, “is Knowledge and Light! No one who follows your Law will be able to raise his eyes toward the Truth. It is impossible to serve two masters. Flee the Darkness! Look to the Light!”

Nathan’s hands shook. The old
Paquid
had told them that, drummed it into their hard heads a thousand times sitting on the sunny shores of the Sea of Arabah—Truth was Knowledge. Knowledge was Light. Light was God.
Truth was God.
Yeshwah had just told all the impious swine in the audience to seek God. But none would understand. None!

Herod shuddered violently and gasped, “You, Yeshwah Bar Abbas, are an offensive rock in the way of Truth. You’re a stumbling stone and a snare for all the citizens of Yerushalaim!”

Yesu’s chin squared, but he didn’t respond.

Herod’s bloated face flushed. He swung around to the crowd, glaring through mad eyes. One of his quaking hands shot out to point at the prisoners. “Who,” he croaked, “has committed the blasphemous, treasonous crime of
mesith,
claiming to have the powers of God?”

The crowd milled, weighing Ben Panthera’s cryptic words about being a King and Yeshwah’s words about Truth and Light.

A short, pudgy little Rab stepped forward, waving both fists. “Crucify Panthera!” he raged. “If you don’t, you’re no friend of Caesar’s!”

Herod’s flabby jaw shook. “You little worm! You despicable pious idiot! You
dare
suggest that I might betray the great and noble Caesar?” He whirled around and glowered at the prisoners, then his hand shot out like a dagger at Yesu. “Guards! Take this godforsaken philosopher, Yeshwah Bar Abbas, out and crucify him.”

A ragged cry was torn from Nathan’s throat. He ripped his knife from its sheath and charged forward, slashing and hacking, fighting to get to Yesu.

Four guards in bronze breastplates ran forward to grab Yesu. Herod hurriedly staggered back through the purple curtains and the crowd went wild. Roman soldiers spurred their horses forward, trampling anyone who didn’t move, to form a rearing, snorting barricade in front of the dais. Horses bashed with their hooves while soldiers chopped with their swords, murdering anyone who dared get close.

Nathan struggled against the wall of fleeing bodies that pushed around him. He saw two of his men go down beneath the swooping silver blades of the centurions—
and he saw Yesu hauled away, screaming, into the palace.

“Oh, Lord, no, no!”

Matthya came rushing through the flailing crowd, shoving people out of his way to get to Nathan. He grabbed Nathan’s arm.
“Wait!”
he shouted through gritted teeth. “Wait. We’ll have another chance. At the crucifixion hill, Gulgolet. If we try now, they’ll kill us all!”