Fellowship *
Sea of Galilee AD 14.
Judas wiped a bead of sweat from his cheek and felt the prickle of stubble. He checked over his lip, more there as well. A smile spread. At last he might grow a beard. In the eyes of his mother, his bar mitzvah might have marked his passage of a boy into a man, but amongst his fellows it was a full beard that bought respect.
He glanced over at Jesus, who had had thick growth on both cheeks for two seasons now, even though he was a year younger than Judas. But that was hardly surprising. Jesus was far more advanced than any of them, and all the more awkward for it.
Just as now. For all there was to do this day, Jesus continued to stare up at the clear skies, oblivious to the harsh summer sun. It was as if his friend studied long and hard enough, he could see the face of God himself. Judas joined his gaze, but as hard as he tried, he saw only endless blue skies. No golden throne. No majestic heavenly seat.
A thin tendril of jealousy laced Judas' heart. Others might secretly scoff at his friend's intense faith, but Judas wished fervently that he might one day glimpse what Jesus so clearly saw.
Just then his friend's head cocked as if he could hear the distant strains of an angel's song. Judas, on the other hand, could hear only his sister's argument back at the village and the shouts of men as they patched a roof. Jesus, however, seemed wholly unaware of the ordinary dealings of men. Instead his focus remained fixed upon the ephemeral.
But as always, Judas' interest waned as quickly as a starling's, and his gaze wandered out over the open waters of their small sea. Boats with their stiff linen sails still dotted the water. The fishing must be good indeed if the men were still out this late in the day.
A breeze stirred the reeds on the bank around them, carrying with it the smell of cooking sardines and a richer aroma. Perhaps the women were stuffing some large musht fish with goat cheese. Judas glanced at Jesus again to see if the scent registered. It was his favorite meal, after all. But his younger friend's eyes never wavered from the heavens. Besides, it was doubtful that Mary, his mother, would be inclined to favor her oldest son with such a delicacy. She was still of ill temper that Jesus had not taken up an occupation since the family had returned home to Capernaum.
But after the death of Joseph, Jesus' interest in carpentry had died as well. Even though he had his mother and five younger brothers and sisters to support, Jesus had retreated even further into his meditation. James and Jude, neither past their bar mitzvah, were scaling the catches brought to shore by the fishermen or hauling firewood, anything to bring home coin.
Reminded of his own obligation, Judas returned to work on the leather strap. His own father had died years ago, and he was used to providing for his mother and three younger sisters, but physical labor was beyond him now. His right leg was laid out straight, still too stiff to tuck under him. Unconsciously he rubbed his throbbing knee. On inspection, it looked no different from the left. The ache lay deep inside.
They had been far from home, traveling south in the winter, following the harvests. The kindly act of helping a villager with a bogged oxcart had cost him dearly. His leg had been crushed under the heavy wheel. A Roman soldier had been benevolent enough to set the limb, but had admitted he was no physician. It had taken a month until they had found an Essene disciple with the knowledge to rebreak the leg and set it properly. Even then it had not healed with the strength it once had. He could walk and perhaps carry a light load, but to balance on a scaffold? To use his right leg to brace when swinging a scythe? The tender bone could not bear such strain.
But his injury had not erased his younger sisters' needs. Food, shelter, and dowries did not fall from the heavens. What else could he do but swallow his pride and learn the skill of leather craft?
Even those who knew of his misfortune still felt unsettled at his profession, for most of his work was commissioned by the Romans. Who else needed studded belts or straps for their quivers? He knew the derision the others felt for him, but he did not cause the Roman occupation, and it would not end if he stopped making scabbards.
The only one who had passed no judgment sat next to him on the bank. Two fatherless boys set apart from the others. One ostracized for his entanglement with their oppressors, the other for his aloof manner. Most could not sit with any comfort next to a boy who sometimes went days without speaking. And when he did grace people with words, most times it was to correct their recital of Scripture. No, most avoided this boy who seemed to know more about God's will than even the high priests.
Just this morning Judas had found his friend sitting alone at the edge of the sea before the mist had even risen from the waters. Judas had brought a breakfast of dried sardines and coarse bread, but Jesus had ignored both the food and his presence. Most days Judas would fill the empty air with word of Jerusalem, and if he ran out of such news he would whisper rumors of the town. However, Judas had to admit it was more to bait his austere friend than to truly inform him. The only guarantee of a response from Jesus was to spread gossip as to who might have broken the Sabbath or sought comfort outside the sanctity of marriage.
But today Judas remained silent, for Jesus seemed to be deep within a conversation of his own. His brow was furrowed. Even his lips pursed then relaxed as if he wished to argue, and then thought better of it. It was a strange day, but no day sitting next to Jesus could be called ordinary.
"I know how I am to die," his friend said, as if informing Judas of where he might settle once he married.
Anyone else Judas might have scoffed at, but Jesus believed so deeply in his own words that he found himself believing them as well.
So Judas asked the only question worthy. "Will you suffer?"
Jesus turned his calm face away from the bright sky and looked into Judas' eyes. "Greatly." He then returned his sight to the heavens.
Judas followed his gaze, for once glad that he could not see what Jesus did.
CHAPTER 2.
Ecuadorian Rainforest Tok stood motionless at the center of the clearing, the scent of fresh blood and snake excrement thick in the air. It held a certain fragrance. Fear and anger. A tincture to brighten his foul mood.
He had missed capturing the doctor by over six hours. Between the time that their mole had forwarded the SEALs' orders and his own team were wheels up, they had lost those six hours. Someone was going to die for the delay.
Adding to his annoyance, the constant moaning and screaming of the savages was becoming tiresome. After his recent surgery, he had barely acclimated to loud noises, let alone the high-pitched squeals from the tortured natives. Tok turned down his cochlear implant's volume, but immediately missed the company of the jungle's sound.
Born deaf and mute, he had only known a cold, lonely, isolated world. A world where he had only himself and his fear. He had grown used to his soundless, barren life. But now, after the surgery to replace his deformed inner ear with microelectrodes, the wind was his constant companion.
And now this rain forest with its insects, birds, and reptiles. Even the river murmured sweet nothings.
The surgery had only been two weeks ago, but already he could not bear to be without this interaction. Slowly he dialed the implant's volume up until his head was filled with the lovely buzz of the jungle. How different this Ecuadorian air sounded from the crisp Swiss air he had just left. This sensory cornucopia was worth the occasional tormented cry that sent a sharp lance across his brain. The acoustic enhancer was going to need some modifications for fieldwork.
Fortunately, the natives seemed of inferior stock. They could not tolerate much more torture before they either capitulated or died.
Someone tapped his shoulder before speaking carefully. "Master Tok, I believe we have found a way to extract the information."
"Petir, I don't need to read your lips. I can hear you."
The older man smiled. "As I can you."
Tok was confused until he realized that he had been signing his words as he spoke, even though his new subvocal cord microphones transmitted into Petir's specially designed earpiece. "Old habits die hard."
"For both of us," his mentor agreed. "Would you follow me?"
Tok followed, but at a languid pace. It was not that he did not wish to get the information and proceed with his mission. He was nothing if not diligent and efficient. It was that he did not wish to leave this place with all of its new sounds. The layers of amazing tones made him yearn to go home.
Born deformed to a whore on the streets of Cairo, Tok had grown up terrified of the press of the marketplace. But what a wonder the crowded bazaar would be now. The shouts of the merchants. The loud bartering. Once they were rid of this troublesome doctor, he would head to Egypt and reclaim his birthplace, rather than let it linger as a childhood nightmare.
And Tok could be assured no one would recognize him and call out, "Golgo," Arabic for abomination. Deaf, and mute, with multicolored eyes and a webbed hand, he had been called much worse. He flexed his left hand within its thick leather glove. Despite the tropical heat, he kept the glove on, for it covered a patchwork of scars caused by the correction of his hand's deformity. No one looking at him now with his brown contacts would suspect he was once kicked and beaten for simply existing.
As they entered an area of trampled vines and leaves, Petir stepped over the broken body of the chief and pointed to a small naked boy cowering at the foot of one of his team. The child's face was painted with stark red lines across his eyes. Savages.
"I think we've found something he cares for more than his life."
Tok crouched by the chief and looked into the tattooed face. Such primal anger. His own emotions might not be as noticeable on the surface, but a rage built within his chest, stoked as these natives refused to give the information he desperately needed.
"Tell me where she went," he intoned, then waited for Petir to repeat it. The man's eyes darted back and forth, confused. Tok had the intent, but the words came from Petir. That was fine. Let him think they had a magical connection. But still the chief held firm, his lips in a tight line.
"Bring the boy."
Petir relayed his command as the boy was dragged over. The chief's eyes flared as he struggled against his restraints.
"This brings me no joy," Tok said as he studied the tattooed face. Even with the child endangered, the chief appeared no closer to speaking. He was going to need more of an incentive. "Use the knife."
With a flash of metal, Petir brought the bone-handled blade to the boy's eye. Tok dialed down his implant just before the bloodcurdling scream. The chief retched as the boy clutched at his now-empty eye socket.
Tok leaned in again, only an inch from the chief's blotchy face. "Where did she go?"
The man did not even wait for Petir before he blurted out, "Paris."
But the man just mouthed syllables he had heard, and his tone was hesitant. Besides, even if the chief was correct, Paris was a very big city.
"Again."
Before Petir could raise the knife, the chief shouted, "Lochum."
Tok bolted upright before his brain registered the name. It could not be.
Not now.
Rapidly Tok correlated all the intelligence chatter over the past days. Paris. The bombing. The bodies. Monroe. Their mole had not mentioned a hint of Lochum. Only a mumbling from a native, but it was enough to set his mind afire.
Tok excitedly signed as he spoke. "We need extraction now."
"Them?" Petir indicated the boy, who had somehow tucked himself under the chief's tied arms, but mercy was not Tok's to give.
He did not bother to intone his response. He simply made a slashing motion across his neck. The response to his command was so swift that he did not have time to turn down his implant. The child's shriek cut through his skull-ending in gurgling sobs. As pain reverberated, Tok was reminded of the high price they paid for the secret entrusted to them.
The damnable Judas Gospel had brought the glare of public scrutiny to antiquity. Now scholars and the public alike sought anything ancient to support or decry the newest Gospel. All in the name of entertainment, so some housewife might contemplate the Lord's final days. Did they not realize that mankind's soul hung in the balance?
Faith was a precious, precarious, and fickle thing. Had his own heart not been black with despair before Petir found him in the slums of Cairo? Now a light filled his body and soul. A light so pure that it could burn away even the sight of this tormented child, leaving him clean again.
God did not need man, but man was in desperate need of God.
Doubt must be eradicated as swiftly as this tribe had been.
Rebecca sat cross-legged on the seat of the Air Force transport, her laptop open and burning down the last of her data DVDs. Another forty gigs of compressed raw data. Once they landed, she would pop all seventeen discs in the mail. The reams of numbers should arrive at the university about the same time her skittish grad students did. There would be weeks upon weeks of mind-numbing, soul-killing number crunching to be done. Those students would think twice before ditching her in the middle of the jungle again.
Her brief satisfaction faded as she remembered Yerato. Was he really dead? The last twenty-four hours were like a smeared oil painting. She could see him fall down the bank in slow motion, but details of the crocodile attack and the frantic rescue attempt eluded her. She gulped. Maybe it was best she could not remember the blood, the terror.
With a sickening lurch of her stomach, Rebecca realized she had not contacted his family. Had Brandt? He said his team had found her tracker's body. Had they also informed Yerato's daughters? She looked over, but for the previous eight hours, the sergeant was sound asleep.
A scathing indictment of Brandt's morals rose to her lips, but was never uttered because she realized that she was actually relieved that he was asleep. Relieved that she didn't have to call Yerato's family. Relieved that she didn't have to face the heated questions of why Rebecca had talked Yerato out of retirement for one last trip down the Amazon.
"Looks like you're working on a regression curve," a male voice stated.
She wiped her eyes, surprised to find tears at the corners. "Yeah. I'm tracking a rare variant of the Haplo gene."
Private Davidson shyly grinned. "That's where the genetic comes into the genetic archaeologist gig?"
"Yep."
Despite herself, she found herself liking this kid. He was the lanky kind of guy who never got a date to the prom but grew up to be the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. Maybe that was why she grinned back. Even in about fifty thousand dollars worth of heavy body armor and weapons, he looked the geek.
"I thought the trans-Arctic migrational paths were pretty set in stone?" He probed further.
Rebecca took a closer look at the young soldier. She had pegged him to be in his late teens, but realized her mistake. There was no way a teen had made it into this elite squad packing nonregulation gear. Mid-twenties at least.
"So where'd you get your science background?"
Davidson shrugged. "Just high school bio and The Learning Channel."
Her fingers flew across her keyboard, relieved to bury her grief in cold science. "Ah, well, they have only told you the half the story."
"Really?" The private repositioned his rifle so he could lean over her shoulder. "You mean Asian nomads didn't cross the Bering Strait to come to the Americas?"
Rebecca brought up a schematic of the world's continents. It showed the usual migratory path of ancient peoples crossing from Russia to Alaska, then down into North America, and eventually into the Southern Hemisphere. Along the path, there were bright red points.
"Sure they did, but their genetic makeup doesn't explain several clusters of greatly divergent genes." She pointed to the red markers.
Davidson noticed red dots on other continents. "Do they match those?"
Shrugging off her sorrow, Rebecca typed rapidly. The "normal" populations dissolved off the screen, leaving only the highlighted centers scattered across the globe. "Yes, they do."
"But there aren't any connecting populations," Davidson said with a hint of hesitation.
"Very good. You have just identified my entire research project. How did these genes get from here..." she pointed to a nidus in Mesopotamia, then to the center of the Aztec Empire, "to here without leaving a trail?"
Davidson looked quizzical.
Oh, she could go on for hours with an interested audience like this. "Now for bonus points, can you determine any pattern to the highlighted populations?"
The young man scrutinized the screen, frowning. "Some in Egypt. That one looks like where we just were. And China... Maybe oil?"
She shook her head sharply. "Your thinking is too current. Remember I'm a paleo-computational biologist. Open your mind to the vast stretch of time. What do all of these locations have in common?"
Davidson studied the sites more intently, cocking his head to the side, taking them all in. Hell, he was more diligent than half her grad students, and after his performance in the jungle, maybe she should consider recruiting students from the armed forces. They would never desert her after a run-in with a pissed-off jaguar.
"Aren't they all centers of ancient civilizations?"
"Yeppers," she said, with more than a little satisfaction.
The private leaned back as he processed the information. "You mean all the great civilizations have the same genetic markers? Markers different than other populations?"
Ah, how she loved that dawning look of realization. "The Greeks. The Vikings. The Ming Dynasty. All of them. Across history, they all have exactly the same mutation at the Haplo gene 22."
"That's crazy talk." His tone proved he was totally into it. "You're trying to unite populations over thousands of miles and thousands of years."
"Doubt it all you like, but that's how I get my funding."
Her work was like the giant, smelly elephant in the room. No one wanted to talk about the "smart" gene she had found. No one wanted to talk about a single irrefutable gene that kept cropping up over and over again throughout history. No one wanted to concede that there might be a very real genetic explanation for exceptional intelligence.
How many universities had told her that such a line of research was too politically charged for their institution? She couldn't care less about the politics of it. The truth was the truth.