The Shadow of Heavenly Things

C H A P T E R T W E N T Y – S I X T H E S H A D O W O F H E A V E N L Y T H I N G S “Who is this that darkens my counsel with words without knowledge? Brace yourself like a man; I will question you, and you shall answer me.” — Job 38:2; from the Scriptures of Truth, the Holy Bible in its uncorrupted form, The Qanah Archives, circa A.D. 2042, City of Ariel T H R O N E R O O M O F T H E A R C H A N G E L , C A T H I A N P R I M E Buoyed by his golden hoverboard and preceded by a dozen Marah guardsmen wearing hooded cloaks and bearing staff-torches, Archangel Sycuan the Third swept into the Throne Room at Cathian Prime with all of the éclat of a procession of gods. Sycuan’s mouth was a thin line, observing the spiritual machine reclining in his own seat of power, the stone edifice that was the preeminent Throne of the Archangel. Cog’s flawless arms were stretched on the throne’s blockish armrests while his mercurial feet relaxed on its ornate foundation. He did not so much as lift his gaze in acknowledgment of Sycuan’s arrival. Instead, he remained motionless, the blue beams protruding from his opalescent eyes reflecting dully off the gold-plated walls of the chamber. It was clear from the archangel’s countenance that he’d come to expect a high degree of reverence from those to whom he’d granted audience. Garbed in his customary vestments---a miter, scarlet in color, an alb, amice, and tunic of like color, and an ephod of gold, blue, purple, and scarlet thread, with a breastplate at its front—Sycuan remained seated stiffly in the high-wrought chair atop his hoverboard. The twelve gemstones mounted in rows at the front of his breastplate gleamed in the light of hoverglobes stationed around the chamber. A coronet of light formed a circlet above his head. Lord Sycuan flexed his aged hand over the gemstone knob of his tri-metal crosier as he awaited some form of greeting from Cog, but the sentient machine remained posed like a statue, as if he were an extension of the stone from which the throne had been carved. The archangel drifted nearer to the throne’s foundation, studying the artificial life-form with cold conviction in his gaze. “My Spirit Children come to me,” Sycuan began, his voice straining, “saying, ‘What shall we do? For this entity works many signs. If we let him alone like this, everyone will believe in him, and they will take away both our place and our faith.’ Now, what am I to do about these things, spiritual machine?” Cog gave no answer, nor did he alter his position on the throne.As the silence lingered on, Sycuan’s agitation with Cog’s inattention to his presence became evident. He motioned sharply to his guardsmen. “Leave us!” The guards departed, closing the Throne Room’s large metal doors behind them. Sycuan directed his hoverboard in a slow circumference around the chamber, tempering his disdain for the machine’s insolence on the journey. Cog sat facing the large holosculpture of the Cathian Church’s central deity, the Holy Queen Mother of Heaven, clothed in linen and riding a scarlet beast with seven heads and ten horns. Words from an ancient system of writing were etched into the beast’s ruddy hide. Cog’s steady gaze never wavered, even when Sycuan’s board intersected his line of sight. “Who are you?” Sycuan asked, a controlled fascination imbuing his words. Cog did not reply. Sycuan reached a position directly in front of the war machine and brought his hoverboard to a halt. Trembling, he pressed himself to his feet. “I am Archangel of the Cathian Church,” he declared in an alarming outburst of rage, the aura of light surrounding him pulsing more brightly, “and Lord Reverend of the Supreme Council of Churches! You dare to come to this place, and blaspheme against the Holy Queen Mother of Heaven with your mind-tricks, and now you would mock me upon my own throne? Answer the question!” Silently, Cog extinguished the blue beams emanating from his micromechanically-machined eyes. He lifted his gaze until it met Lord Sycuan’s. “Who do men say that I am?” he asked. Sycuan’s demeanor changed as he returned to a seated position on his hoverboard, and a sardonic smile touched the edges of his mouth. “I will answer your question, warbot,” he conceded, “but only because it serves my purposes to do so.” Sycuan completed another circumference around Cog’s position before he began to speak. “To many, war machine, you are living proof that science has reached an intellectual equivalency with the Holy Queen of Heaven, the Blessed Mother-Creator of all things, through the duplication of the greatest of her miracles: the creation of life from non-life. The people believe that after many centuries of failed promises, science has, at long last, given birth to both our firstborn son, and our intellectual successor—a being who has the ability to heal our physical and mental ills, the capability to bring lasting peace to our solar system, and the power to lead us into the next phase of our glorious existence. It is for these reasons that they flock to Lamphere’s Celestial Sphere of the Heavens Sanctuary to experience your recreant sermons. Your sentient existence has given license to the people to believe that man is in control of his own destiny, and that there is no Higher Being, no Creator, no ultimate Authority in the universe with moral and ethical limitations to hold us accountable for our thoughts and actions; no ultimate Truth who will judge us for our sins.” “And what is all this to you, Archangel?” Cog inquired. Sycuan’s hoverboard whirred to a stop. “Much indeed, warbot,” he answered. “For your existence has served to render all religions and all deities—including the Holy Queen Mother of the Cathian Church—obsolete in the minds of the people. Even as we speak, millions abandon their respective faiths, and gather on the Highway of Holiness to experience your much-publicized system-wide broadcast.” Cog offered nothing in reply. He simply lifted his right hand, and began to write with his index finger in the light covering of dust that had gathered on the armrest of the throne. “These Qanah,” he said, studying the dust on his fingers, “the freedom fighters whom I encountered on my journey through the Old City District, those who refer to Optinet as Daystar and refuse to take its transponder, rendering them unable to buy or sell, do you know who they are?” The tone of the inquiry had been such that there was no doubt the archangel would respond. Sycuan shrugged uneasily. “They are merely a rebellious faction of the Patron. Religious zealots who have chosen to split away from the teachings of their forefathers; antiquated fools who would forego the knowledge of an Optinet transponder. Why do you ask?” Sycuan observed Cog’s machinations carefully. He watched his artificial finger glide over the smooth stone surface of the armrest in a seamless flow. “Religious zealots, you say?” Cog replied. “Then why do they choose to live in the catacombs beneath the war-ravaged squalor of the Old City, where they are at such high risk of the violence which besets that land? Why do they join with the Patron to war with such fervor, and at such great loss with the Marah over the possession of ancient religious sites and crumbling monuments of stone?” Sycuan shook his head. “Blind faith, I suppose. Apparently, their desire to live near to the ruined sites of their forgotten religion outweighs the fear of their own extinction. Politicians have tried for centuries to end the Patron-Marah conflict, Overlord Ocaba included, but no one has been able to convince either side of the folly of their ways.” “And what of their forgotten religion, Lord Sycuan?” Cog probed. “What of their barren, watchful lives? What of their petition to the deity they call the Seed of the woman, Mashiyach, the Coming One, the Nazarene? Do you know much of these things, Archangel?”