Seven Veils of Wisdom – Bloc One – by P J Searle
Chapter Seven

Lucas Manning stood erect at the regimented line of luxurious porcelain washbasins in the UN gentlemen’s toilet, staring at himself in the mirror. He was alone, washing his hands vigorously, over and over, like Pontius Pilate washing away the frightful conundrum. Ablution completed he turned to the hand-dryer, dried his hands then walked off, passing the row of WC cubicle doors. One of the doors opened and an arm stretched out and grabbed him. ‘What the hell! …’ he gasped as his arm was twisted up his back, and proceeded to unceremoniously frog-march him towards the stall. A powerfully built Japanese man, Mo Sakamoto, released the arm-lock and pulled him, protesting, into the cubical and closed the door. ‘Mo!’ growled Manning, somewhat shocked, ‘What the hell are you doing?’ sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ FɪndNøvel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

Sakamoto put his finger up to his lips for silence, then, taking out an applicator, fiddled and removed his QuickVision ear-implant communicator. He then began to communicate in sign language. ‘Use sign – Lock the door.’

‘You fucking maniac...’ said Manning, locking the door, ‘… people will think we are goddam shirt-lifters.’

‘What do I care about that,’ signed Sakamoto, his hands and lips feverishly gesticulating. ‘This is to do with money! Take out your ear-implant.’

Manning put his hand inside his shirt and pulled out his neck chip, and fiddled to disable it.

–Sign language, or simply, "signing", was, since the ear-implant eradication of deafness in 2019, thought to be redundant. Sign had been a language, which, instead of acoustically conveying sound patterns, combined the use of movement of the hands, arms or body, and facial expressions to articulate a person’s words. A sign language was developed in every community of the deaf and mute persons unable to speak, subsequently, hundreds of sign languages were in use up until 2019. These were now rendered virtually redundant. But in 2024, with the new proposed implant using stem-cell linkage to retina and brain, plus the future promise of ‘direct thought communication,’ signing had made its comeback as a covert expedient.

Walden, sealed-off the Pegasus docking compartment, pinched his eyes closed and spoke into his hand. ‘Okay… how’s this, Captain?’ In the control room, his voice came through loud and clear.

‘Fine,’ answered Falstaff, ’I’m receiving audio, but no picture. How ‘bout you, Rees?’

‘The same, Boss, audio but no picture… I had a picture momentarily, but now it’s gone.’

‘Right, Walden, come back.’ Walden came back in and closed off the compartment. Falstaff considered a moment, then continued. ‘Okay, we’re gonna be busy. We got to hot-wire forty missiles. Just remember, if one goes, we all go.’

‘You don’t say,’ said Rees, glibly. ‘An’ if we go, they go.’ he lifted his eyes upwards, to the crew above. Falstaff acknowledged the dreadful inference.

In the UN, WC stall, Mo Sakamoto rolled his eyes in disbelief. He gesticulated in urgent sign to non-plussed Lucas Manning. ‘You still have that old necklace-chip thing. You’re not very loyal for a shareholder. What have you got?’

Manning, unable to give an answer while still holding and fiddling with his neck chip, just stabbed a "fuck you" finger into the air. He managed to deactivate and put the chip away inside his shirt, then he too continued in sign: ‘As we thought – His Majesty. If CIC Communications try to go solo he’ll corrupt every chip, program, valve, crystal, and piece of fucking fuse wire; there’s a contingency in place for any and every such scenario. Ron Bates is alive and well, and pissed! – God save His Majesty.’

Sakamoto rolled his eyes again, this time in frustration. As Manning started to back out of the stall Sakamoto put his hand up as to say wait, ‘Hey, while we’re here…’ he fluttered his eyelashes provocatively and blew a kiss, then lewdly waggled his tongue. The stall door crashed open and Manning burst out, grim-faced and appalled. Sakamoto, still in the stall, was laughing.

In the dining room, Smithson’s eyes searched Mitzi’s unrepentant face. ‘Are you serious, Mitzi?’ he said at length, ‘It’s not a joke, is it old girl?’

‘No, old boy. Not a joke. But that’s my theory – Well, one of them: intelligence begets religion. And for religion, read God, and for God, read intelligence – it’s always been so.’

Smithson gave her a doubtful look. ‘So, what you’re saying is that the planet is God.’

‘What I’m saying is, that if something gets more intelligence than for mere survival, a surplus, it gets time to question. In short, it gets religion, and that’s all I’ve done, question!’ She smiled at him, Smithson didn’t smile back, ‘It’s always been so, Smitty, even with rabbits – you should read Watership Down.’

Smithson considered. ‘That is a load of… raka! – Sounds like the Gaia theory.’

‘Christ! Not that godless flower-power rubbish?’

‘I thought that’s what you were saying,’ said Smithson, slightly annoyed, ‘Well, wasn’t it?’

Mitzi thought for a moment, then went to answer, then thought better of it and stared vacantly across the restaurant.

–The Gaia theorists state that the planet Earth has all of the essential characteristics of a living organism. It represents the entire planet as a multi chimeric entity. Gaia also theorises that not only do living organisms modify their environment but also they modify themselves, to evolve holistically as one. Perhaps this explains why, in 2018, this hypothesis was met with considerable criticism from natural scientists. Some had accused the Gaia theorem of falling under the ‘hylozoistic fallacy’. Subsequently, in 2019, along with other holistic philosophies, it was denounced as a cult. The argument rested on the premise that the Gaia theory constituted a non-plausible scientific explanation. The Gaia theorists had insisted it be a purely scientific model without any metaphysical or religious implications.

Many people still used the Gaia model to extend their understanding of a pre-existing body of philosophies, to suggest that our dominant role on Earth will undoubtedly come to an end and be replaced by another genus, much as mammals usurped the dinosaur. This was said to be culprit, by Gaia theorist, for the greenhouse effect and global warming, they saw it as the planet’s guiding hand. Some more radical pundits saw it as a chastising force for the good of humanity.

Mitzi broke from her malaise. ‘Okay,’ she said, defensively. ‘What else is there?’

‘I don’t know… The Bilderberg Group, Maybe.’

‘Yeah, I thought of them.’

‘Or the Illuminati… peace and blessings unto them?’

‘Ha! That red herring… the Illuminati is Bilderberg’s bitch! And Scientology is Illuminarti’s bitch!’ I did some research. To quote, “every year since 1954, the secretive Bilderberg Group has convened. They named themselves after the hotel in the Netherlands where they first met.” They’re a group of egotistical, elite powerbrokers from Europe, and North, Middle, and South America; they hung the Illuminati albatross around its neck to give it some historic credence. While the rest of the world goes fart-arsing about looking for the Illuminati and the blood of Christ and the Holy Grail – fuckin’ jerks – they can continue to Bilder their fucking Burgs unmolested. Anyway… they meet to discuss and influence the changing global, political, economic, and the goddam social landscape–’

‘Yes, yes… I know all this.’

Mitzi gave him a searching stare. ‘Jesus Christ! You’re one of them! … A goddam Bilderberg demigod?’

‘Was one of them.’

‘Why? Why, in God’s name?’

‘Why did I join? I was flattered, I suppose. They invited me to attend. I did. But I got the feeling I didn’t come up to scratch; I wasn’t important enough. When they discovered I could contribute nothing other than my title, they, shall we say, let me go.’

‘Well, I’ll be buggered!’

‘Dear God in heaven! Mitzi,’ shrieked Smithson, rolling his eyes in exasperation, ‘I do wish you wouldn’t say that!’

Mitzi gave him an incredulous stare, ‘Okay okay, Mr. Picky… Jeesus! So, I take it you’re not over-convinced by your Bilderberg demigod buddies… which brings us back to–’

‘Hallelujah!’ he interrupted, ‘The real thing, aye, old girl?’

‘Okay, smart arse! Just try this on for size, old boy: In the words of the prophets we’ve fucked up big time, and–’

‘And, like naughty little boys,’ he interrupted again, ‘we’re going to get our bums smacked! Is that what you are saying… Dearest?’ He laughed again.

She stared daggers at him, then she too laughed. ‘And naughty little girls. Am I going to get my bum smacked, Dearest?’

Smithson smiled wickedly, ‘I should say so, old girl. Try and stop me. What?’

‘You… a demigod, ha!’ She took his hand across the table and pulled him close.

The hand now pulled him to her naked breast. They were in the hotel bedroom, Smithson and Mitzi were desperate to unclothe, the one helping the other, Mitzi, giggling, collapsing onto the bed. Smithson in his haste tripping over his half discarded trousers and falling on top of her, frantically, desperate to remove his voluminous underpants. She seized him and kissed him hard, engulfing his entire mouth, grabbing and scratching in her haste.

Now it was passive, tender lovemaking leading to finale; Mitzi kneeling at his feet, her head between his knees looking up and moving towards his groin, her face radiant with pleasure as she opened her mouth… to a glass of water.

Mitzi drained the glass in one swallow, filled it again from the jug on the great oak table in front of her and promptly drained it again, desperate to quench her wine-induced dehydration. She was sitting in the United Nations Star Chamber briefing room, the morning after the night before.

Also in the oak-panelled room, some fifty other delegates sat unceremoniously around the massive circular table. Water, coffee flasks and cups, and paper pads scattered. They came to an unruly order as the speaker’s lectern accommodated UN undersecretary, Dr. Guido Wani. This enormous obese man surveyed them for a few moments with demanding eyes, then he spoke in a low grating voice.

‘Ladies/gentlemen…’ he paused as he took off his tortoiseshell spectacles and polished the lenses on his tie, ‘Good morning.’ He put the glasses back on and studied them again. ‘First allow me to apologise: the breakfast was not up to our normal excellent standards…’ he paused again as to allow protest – there was none. He smiled and continued, ‘… but this meeting was, as you are aware and will appreciate, made in haste. And like all things made in haste, it will be criticised at leisure. And it is that same haste that brings us here today at this short notice. You have all read the agenda?’ He paused yet again and scanned the hall with searching eyes, like a schoolmaster offering the opportunity for comment – again there was none. ‘Good,’ he continued, ‘Good that you understand the problem. There are enough smart missiles strategically, or unstrategically, placed to wipe out half the population of this planet, and without breaking so much as a single pane of window-glass. Someone has dropped a proverbial spanner into the ointment… Why?’

He scanned the room; every soul was intently listening. He took a drink of water and let the tension build. ‘So!’ he boomed, startling a few, ’The brief is, there is no brief. Form two groups, 1. and 2., and talk to each other, open old wounds, old deals ‘made in haste’. If there is a hidden agenda, find it… at your leisure.’ He stopped again. This time, he looked gravely around the hall with his Medusa stare, catching every third or forth person. ‘If there is a war intended,’ he continued, ‘find the enemy – chances are he/she is here, in this room, among us –and start talking cease-fire, terms, whatever. But for God’s sake start... at your leisure, you have plenty of time… the rest of your lives.’ He gave a sardonic smile. ‘Both groups meet at two hundred hours and collaborate. We will work through the night.’

Fifty miles off the northern shores of Novaya Zemlya a fleet of quad-helicopters hovered and disgorged their massive loads to the bustling prefabricated station. The ice-hole punched out by the stricken submarine had now frozen over. The only evidence of the vessel was an orange communication buoy that trailed a bunch of electric cables. These cables led to the three control cabins, each of which now had a cluster of satellite dishes and different-shaped aerials appended. Inside the largest cabin, Admiral Simmons, a sixty-year-old stalwart looking man stood speaking into an intercom.

‘Falstaff, I’m sending the submersible down. We’re going to blast a hole in the ice. Make ready the docking hatch; I’m relieving your crew. I have two technicians ready to take command. – Over.’

Forty fathoms down, from the command room of the Pegasus, Falstaff gave a despondent shrug, ‘I don’t think so, Admiral. I have limited internal control but nothing else. And we can’t use the computer. Someone, something’s, shoved a bug into the Mare’s works. I can’t access any exterior peripheral. If you want in, you’ll have to do it manually. – Over.’

‘Then that’s what we’ll do,’ the curt reply crackled over the sub’s intercom, ‘Can you give an accurate assessment? – Over.’

‘Bad bad news, Admiral. Since my last report, missiles one and two have reactivated. It’s like playing battleships and cruisers, as we deactivate one the Mare reactivates another, back an’ forth… we only need to miss one. Any news on Marjoram. – Over?’

‘Not much,’ said Simmons, bluntly, ‘An’ what there is, you don’t wanna hear. – Over.’

‘There ain’t much fun down here at the moment, Admiral…’ Falstaff’s voice had a hint of irony in it as it echoed around the control room, ‘… we need some amusement. Let’s have it. – Over.’

‘Okay,’ conceded Simmons. ‘The only thing we got is that it’s some kind of biblical codename: Exodus, Angel of Death, and Passover. That’s it. – Over.’

‘Passover!’ gasped Falstaff in amazement, ‘Holy goddam Moses!’

‘You should curb your tongue, Captain Falstaff, lest the Lord be listening. – Over.’

’You think he can hear way down here, Admiral? – What’s being said about us and the French? – Over.

Admiral Simmons leaned into the microphone, as if for confidentiality. ‘News bulletins say “a United States A-class nuclear submarine is in trouble and that there’s been an explosion in the Pacific”. We didn’t say what kind. Let the media draw their own conclusions, they’re not slow in doing that. Mercifully, with the computer and IT problem, nothing seems to have been detected … they seem to have left the French thing on the back-burner; there’s to be a Greater Britain emergency meeting in Paris.’

‘Marjoram! What–’ the voices collided over the one-way link, Falstaff repeated, ‘What have they said about, marjoram? – Over.’

’Okay, ‘marjoram.’ Again they’ve drawn their own conclusions – ‘cyber blackmail’, ‘world-wide multi-media hype’. You name it, they’ve said it.’

‘Hype!’ Again the voices collided.

‘Yes. The morons think it’s a hacker. Something like the second-millennium hiccup and the Sony scam, or Russia doing another goddam Watrergate. That or they suspect it to be a new satellite channel or maybe a free network promo, website or super-broadband, whatever, I’m quoting. – Over.’

‘Thank the Lord for small mercies. – Over and out.’

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