From Dust to Man

Copyright © 2013 by Jennifer Van Wie.

Library of Congress Control Number:            2013902260

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-4797-4305-6

               Softcover         978-1-4797-4304-9

               Ebook               978-1-4797-4306-3

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 2/22/2013

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CONTENTS

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Sneak Peak Of Samoht The Rise Of Man

Author Bio

Dedication

I dedicate this book to Justin Van Wie and Heather Van Wie Plampin, my children, my life, my critics, my cheering team, my inspiration. Thank you for believing in me and being my rock and for loving me, but above all else, for saying, Just publish the damn thing.

Note from the Author

This book was written between 1979 and 1982 during a time of great inequality between men and women. Women’s power was just emerging, a fledgling pursuit of tenuous equality. Too controversial to introduce my novel then, I opted to wait and see how history would evolve and unfurl our ever changing social order. I caution the reader that this novel is not for any particular group of people nor is it against any group of people or religion or sexual orientation but rather, it is an honest what-if scenario. What if an unspeakable tragedy changed every part of your existence? Those left—would they create a superior world order over that of the old? I leave you the reader to answer this question.

Jennifer Van Wie

PROLOGUE

The dry baked land loomed endless as Ashad Asar leaned heavily against his chair. The billowy blue-and-white striped canvas whipped lazily in the hot breeze. Sweat poured down his bronzed skin; his head pounded.

Victory, sweet victory, was his. The capitalist pigs, the mighty pustules of the west, were doomed. His lips sneered, curling into a slow, hard edge.

How he would have loved to see Moscow and New York lay open like gaping, festering wounds. Oh, to see the faces, young and old, how he would have cherished the sight of their death dance as they twisted and died. Finally, he had lived to see the Great Bear and the Mighty Eagle mortally wounded, the flesh burned from their very bones. A sardonic chuckle erupted from deep within his chest as his fingers idly massaged the incessant pounding between his temples.

The illness running through his camp was of no concern to him. The American pigs would have to do better than this, he thought arrogantly. His men were hard and battle ready, not like the weak Americans. His men would soon heal.

Again, the American jackals spewed impotent lies from their boisterous mouths. Again, they made too much of their power.

All was ready for the final assault. The United States was going to pay for this biological plague. Everything was ready for his next gift of doom, and this time, Washington would collapse right into the palm of his hand. Soon, this very day, they would leave his desert hideaway. He would issue the orders of which, until now, he could only have dreamed. Today, the world would bow down to the king of Iran.

Ashad leaned over and picked up a fine porcelain cup brimming with cool, fresh water. He drank deeply, letting his violent hatred of the United States wash through him. Rising and pushing the folds of his robe aside elegantly, he walked over to the tent entrance and gazed outside.

His flowing robes of white could not camouflage his battle-honed body, nor did it soften the lines of his hawkish face. Everything about the man spoke of hard-edged steel and power. His unforgiving eyes sparkled black and ratlike. They were the eyes of a man prone to visions—a delusional man, bent on an insane mission. A turban of blue, his trademark in battle, encircled his head like a crown, giving him a regal yet menacing air.

As his eyes scanned the dust-filled land, the sun bore down, scorching his eyes, sending small pinpoints of pain to his brain, carving through the soft tissue like a knife. His body ached, but he pushed the pain aside. Strength, and his faith in Allah, would not let the American virus overtake him. He was put on this earth to change the world; he was the chosen one. No one had power over him. He was power.

The desert sand reflected back, blanched and lifeless, as it streamed before him like a boundless ocean of granular cream. Love for his people and his land was as vast as the infinite grains of sand and as strong as the blazing sun. Today they would know of his love. Generations to come would talk of his deeds with pride. Today he would become immortal.

Suddenly and without warning, a rapier-sharp pain ripped through his body. Mortified, his expression went from a study of victorious calm to disbelief and then spread quickly to that of fear. Another crushing pain grabbed him, this time exploding in his temples. Violent tremors racked his body. His eyes danced with a mixture of pain and arrogant disbelief as he watched his once-strong hands gnarl inward. The tendons and muscles violently contorted until his hands appeared as mangled knotting flesh. A wild moan emitted from his lips.

Unable to grasp his fatal destiny, he tried to take a step, only to feel his strong legs collapse, sprawling him across the desert sand. Gritty hot sand ground into his eyes and mouth as he coughed up thick, fetid black blood. This cannot be, his mind screeched out as he felt the tendons in his legs draw up, straining to snap. At that moment, he knew the feeling of mortality: he knew he was dying. Allah had deserted him, his people, and his destiny. Between swollen, cracked lips, he rasped out, Why?

No answer came. Only the sound of the rustling, dust-filled wind echoed in his ears; and for the first time in his life, the familiar delusional voices fell silent. He was alone.

Tears of failure and pain brimmed in his midnight eyes, tears of lost hope for his people. He cast his eyes to the direction of Mecca and gave a final desperate prayer, then rolled his bulging tear-streaked eyes heavenward until the mighty sun burned into his very soul.

A stream of blood trickled from the corner of his nose and mouth. His throat closed against itself until his lungs sucked empty air. One last contorted surge of agony struck him as his bowels erupted, emptying a mixture of feces and coagulated blood into the hot earth beneath.

Allah, the named hissed from his lips, graveled and voiceless, you cannot let this happen.

Stilled silence cloaked the desert, except for the intermittent whisper of the wind, as a lone green fly buzzed and circled the sweet beckoning death scent. Lifeless black eyes gazed on, oblivious to reality, seeing nothing, not even the passing of time.

CHAPTER ONE

After the Extinction,

600 Years in the Future

Soft light bathed the hallway connecting some twenty-odd rooms in undisturbed silence. Ponderous and empty, the house seemed barren of life until Dr. Suzanne Wright and her cat turned the corner. The silence, replaced by Suzanne’s soft voice, echoed down the lonely halls in lilting, feminine tones, bringing life to the tomblike quiet. She chatted to her cat as she always did—warmly, openly, about everything imaginable. Entertaining, with a charming, Neanderthal-like intelligence, Tessa proved to be the perfect companion. After all, she was the only living creature for more than two hundred miles; and though Suzanne might have chosen human companionship over that of a cat, she took Tessa’s warm championship gladly.

In her infinite wisdom, she figured she could appear insane talking to herself or to her cat. She opted for the latter. At least she was not lonely, and aside from the obvious drawbacks, the relationship did have its benefits. Tessa didn’t chitchat aimlessly about mundane topics, nor was she likely to be a spy. She even had her moments of being terribly loving and cuddly—that is, when she was not being insufferably independent. Most important to Suzanne’s world, Tessa never argued back.

Just forty-eight hours of work left to do, she announced with cool satisfaction.

It seemed like a dream. In mere days, she could be like the rest of the world. Dread wavered momentarily beneath her smiling eyes as she instantly realized she did not have the remotest idea of what the rest of the world did. It propelled her into a vulnerable region of her mind, where an uncommon emotion of doubt loomed within her.

Completion was a dual-edged sword for Suzanne. Years of a one-minded goal sharpened the edge until, no matter how she turned, her years of work and dedication made it impossible for her to relate to others. For the first time, she could experience choice. Each day could be different: no more dawn risings, no more midnight experiments, no more constant pushing of deadlines upon deadlines. Her dilemma was clear—how does one become comfortable with choice when one has not experienced it? The abstract idea of free time delighted and humbled her with fear in the same instant. What in the world would she do with her time?

Oh, good grief, she said aloud. You’re so damn melodramatic. You gripe about not having free time, and when you have it, what do you do? You plan a nervous breakdown.

Suzanne stopped, glancing back at Tessa, who was quietly shadowing her steps. It was apparent Tessa didn’t care about her emotional distress. She, no doubt, was contemplating something more near and dear to her heart: dinner.

Miss Tessa, I guess—I’ll get no help from you, she muttered good-naturedly, pushing open the dining room door.

The dining room table, singularly set for Suzanne, was a welcome sight, until her eyes spied XJ9 standing beside the table. The shiny metal android with vacant black eyes evoked instant irritation.

Tessa, try to stay out the way of XJ9, she warned, pointing a slender finger in the direction of the android.

Preening her small ears, Tessa curiously cocked her head and gazed up at Suzanne wistfully. China blue orbs blinked back serenely, slowly regarding Suzanne as if she had not a care in the world.

Suzanne sighed. You know, Tessa, we would get along much better if you were a little more observant and a little heavier in the brains department.

XJ9’s eyes lit up to a haunting red hue as soon as she detected two warm-blooded creatures entering its scanning range; it quickly did an organic identification check.

Good evening, Dr. Wright. What shall I prepare for your evening meal?

XJ9’s familiar voice set off a thousand alarm bells in Tessa’s small feline brain. Bolting upright, she arched her back in retaliation. In a split second, she shifted from bored complacency to a creamy puffball of electrified fur. Watching as the android approached, she crouched low, attempting one brave hiss then shot like a bullet between Suzanne’s ankles. Suzanne’s brilliant blue eyes danced with humor. Some show of bravado, she thought, looking down at Tessa blinking back in terror.

Suzanne looked up to see XJ9’s deadpan expression. Held under the android’s cold stare, her humor quickly faded, leaving Suzanne with an overwhelming feeling of uncomfortable mistrust. If only XJ9’s voice was less nasal and her personality warmer, she thought, trying to salvage her mood. It was no good; the android was a complete irritant. Technically, XJ9 was a wonder. Socially, she was a disaster. Idly, she found herself wondering who would have programmed such a waspish, unlikable creature. No doubt, she thought, studying XJ9’s stoic expression, someone with the personality of a wart—someone in good standing with the World Council.

I’ll have a salad, and Tessa will take the usual, she replied dryly. And, XJ9, you must stop running over Tessa’s tail.

The small creature is hard to detect, whined the android.

XJ9, that is not an option—that is a command.

Very well, as you wish, Dr. Wright. A large package came today while you were working. It’s from a Dr. Margaret Wright, 1289-6 block 9…

I know my grandmother. Identification numbers are not necessary, Suzanne snapped, whisking Tessa up into the safety of her arms.

I’ll have dinner in the living area, Suzanne said, stalking from the room.

A well-noted geneticist, Dr. Suzanne Wright sprang up through the ranks much earlier than expected, mastering the sole thing no one else could. At the mere age of twenty-two, she had defied nature, broken all the rules, and produced a greatly needed commodity: the biological wonders of organically based life artificially created by her secret combined process of parthenogenesis.

The demand was born out of desperation, out of the need of 20 billion females pushing their limits of survival to the max. For six hundred years, twenty-five shrines of the Great Mother, housing the seed of existence, stood as the world’s symbol of life over death. Above all else, it was the most coveted and valuable natural resource representing the promised imperishability of her species. Now, the gift of the Great Mother’s seed was dwindling; quite simply, it was running out. Natural disasters and unforeseen contamination had reduced the number of shrines down to six, leaving the clergy hard-pressed to explain the loss.

Now, only one hundred years of procreation lay nurtured in the hallowed walls of the six shrines. After they were depleted, the last generation would grow old and feeble, finally ending its brilliant legacy in extinction.

The religious clergy talked of the second coming of the Great Mother. They talked of renewal and hope while the government secretly spent trillions upon trillions to capture the key to creation. More than fifty long years went into the quest; and now, because of Dr. Suzanne Wright, there was hope. Now, life could prevail.

Surpassing women that were older with enormous scientific acuity, she had academically pushed past their archaic ideas like a rocket. Her hypothesis, both unorthodox and brilliantly radical, took her away from any hope of a normal life and into years of painstaking study and research. Her work was her entire life, her reason for living; it shaped her very essence of being. Like a bloodhound in hot pursuit, she had spent every waking moment on the project devoted to her methodical investigation, driven beyond all reason.

As a small child, the World Council had groomed her. From the age of four, she had been educated at the finest learning institutions in the world, where they also reared others, genetically selected, to solve the world’s problems. It was a mathematical probability that any of the select few could have solved the dilemma, but Suzanne had broken through first, making her fiery rivals boil with the knowledge she had wrested from them—their hopes for power, but more importantly, their hopes for fame. Suzanne was not disturbed about their jealousies; she simply didn’t give a damn. Secluded from her colleagues for the past ten years, she had no concept of friendship or the need to be liked, so it was easy to take their resentment in stride.

In a matter of days, the first child, created by her parthenogenesis process, would come to full gestation. Everyone on the World Council would be there to witness her scientific phenomenon. Even the clergy could not question her claim. Now, all she needed to do was to wait. Proof of her years of research and experimentation would be born, giving the world and its women hope for new life. Of course, women across the world were ignorant to the truth about their proximity to extinction. Suzanne mused, How would the World Council explain that the Great Mother has no powers to procreate? What would become of their deity?

Hmm… fascinating.

A self-satisfied smile played at the corner of her lips as she made her way to the couch. Flouncing down like a young schoolgirl, she snuggled Tessa deep within her lap, tickling the fur under her small pointed chin.

Such small pleasures, Suzanne whispered, watching the cat’s eyes close blissfully.

With XJ9 busying her metallic presence elsewhere, the room was quiet. Just the occasional purr from Tessa marred the silence. She liked her living area more than any other location in her large rambling house. Silk-lined walls of creamy peach created a relaxing backdrop for what Suzanne liked to refer to as her pillow furniture. She loved to sink down into the soft downy cushions of her couch; it was pure pleasure. To her, it was prime time, sinful self-indulgence. Here in the understated room, she did her best thinking, and at times, even her best sleeping.

The entire area was a safe haven, a soft contrast to her sterile, stainless steel world of test tubes, artificial wombs, computer data, and harsh laboratory lighting. Settling herself comfortably, she curiously examined the heavy metal box XJ9 had so artfully placed at exactly a ninety-degree angle to the corner of her couch. Leaning over, she separated an elongated packet bound to the top of her grandmother’s odd gift.

Grandmother, you are as mysterious as ever, she said as her smiling eyes danced mischievously over the prospects of the contents of the shiny packet. She could not wait to hear her grandmother’s voice. Like a child eager for attention, she ripped open the packet. Inside she found an iridescent plate of Zialon film.

Well, Tessa, let’s see what grandmother has to say, she