Being (Being Saga, Book I)

Prologue

"Judas said to Jesus, 'Does the human spirit die?'
Jesus said, 'This is why God ordered Michael to give the spirits of people to them as a loan, so that they might offer service, but the Great One ordered Gabriel to grant spirits to the great generation with no ruler over it — that is, the spirit and the soul.'"

- Gospel of Judas

***

Mil Gunde was looking down at someone. Or something. He brushed his forefinger against his peppered designer stubble. His eyes were intense and focused, already lost in what he was about to say.

What he had to say.

He ground his teeth while shifting his weight to his better side. There was a beat of stale silence before his voice hit the air as if his lips were moving.

"You're not good..."

He paused a moment as that truth sat between him and his eager audience, wishing he could see the look on the creature's face.

"Since our initial meeting I've felt this...I've known good, in all its forms and you've not even managed to fall short. It feels to me as if your morals are muddled, and no matter how long you endure what you try to imitate, I don't believe you'll ever be a person. You're just not right..."

A stiffness planted itself between the disks in the shadow's back as Mil's words took shelter in the hidden thing's temple.

"You've been indifferent with this life — something you didn't ask for but also never bothered to earn — allowing what you've acquired a taste for to devour you from the inside out."

He stopped to prolong the effect he'd created, studying the dangling black strands of hair momentarily trembling as if a chill had swept between them in a fury.

"But not after this moment." Mil straightened up as the words invigorated the nerves in his spine. "Something has come for us. Something new and pure, and right. You will be humbled and I pray transformed into this semblance of a human being. Something your Creator can marvel at again...Wouldn't you like that?"

They were in a small, dark outhouse just lit by a camp light. A few yard and power tools were faintly seen on a wall behind Mil, and in front of him was the bowed figure. His face shrouded, he remained in a servile position.

"I would," the figure thought, the words filled with a depth that nothing on Earth could reach.

Mil turned around in his folding chair and began scribbling in a notebook as if he'd been doing that before he got interrupted.

"Ah. I almost forgot. You know your brother is coming."

The figure stopped himself from lifting his head.

"I understand that you and he think on a plane that is far above my comprehension. But his presence is vital, so I'll manage to reach that plane by whatever means." He glanced back at him, picking up his pen as if to think. "...Well, I'm not sure if I should even ask this of you."

That stiffness fought to loosen but had lost.

"Ask of me," the figure pleaded, ravenous.

Mil attempted a smile and pivoted in his chair to face the being.

"Look at me."

He lifted his head, his countenance barely veiled, divine and ageless. With an eternity glistening in his eyes, he longed hopeful as he fixed on his master. His pupils dilated, smoldering, awaiting his next order.

"Thiere..."