The Remnant: The Annunaki And The Apocalypse

Prologue

Aboard the Annunaki mother ship NB46

The shimmering silvery light shone upon the specimen, depriving him of the typical flesh colour of his race and so modelling his features as to appear other than human. On the operating table under the pervasive overhead light, seventeen-year-old Mark Fisher from Grimsby in the United Kingdom was the subject of observation by an advanced race of whom he did not have any cognisance.

A long, pointed finger, the vestigial scales of which the reptilian creatures were so proud, caught the light and transformed it into the entire spectrum of colours, indicating the specimen. I say that it is unethical to erase all of the creature’s memories.

Why? replied Commander Ninki. The human’s memories are mediocre. Even if we deprive him of his circle of friends and family, it will be no great loss. In exchange, he will receive benefits unimaginable to others of his race and create a future glorious and unimaginable to him and his kind. We have discussed this; it was decided in the Great Council of Nibiru after many years of debate. The all-wise Enki himself decreed that the only course of action to save the planet Earth, without the direct intervention of our people, was this, which we are embarked upon.

Ninki’s yellow-barred eyes bored into those of his comrade, and he tilted his head, so that his hooked beak mask with its sharp point glinted in the light. In the greater scheme of things, the erasure of the creature’s accumulated memories and their substitution is a matter of trifling importance. No doubt, his demise will be felt deeply by his parents, but his fragile race, which we genetically engineered, I might remind you, with all its virtues and defects, is used to grief. His procreators will not forget him, but all the others will have banished him from their thoughts within a short time. So, brethren, I insist, as your Commander, that we proceed with the operation.

The Annunaki lifted the human’s head and encased it in a helmet of a light alloy lined with sensors. No cables connected the helm to the multiprocessor because the pulses emitted were captured by the screen, then stored and processed by the master board.

Every memory and incomplete thought stored in Mark Fisher’s brain transferred into the powerful computer in seconds, where they would be scrutinised, analysed and elaborated. Meanwhile, Mark was nourished artificially with nutrients that kept him alive and compensated for deficiencies in his diet before being beamed aboard the mother ship. His vegetative state depended entirely upon the neutralisation of his brain activity and could be likened by an earthling, inaccurately, to an induced coma.

Commander, I still have scruples. I suggest we take the specimen to Nibiru to let the All-Wise decide on this ethical matter.

Come with me, Abzu. You will understand why that is impossible, and cease your prattling and insubordination, after you have seen what I wish to show you. Is the transfer complete, Nammu?

Yes, Commander. We await further instructions.

Excellent, take a break. We shall continue when I return.

Commander Ninki led Abzu along the shiny corridor to the dragon blood wooden door of his command station. Three rapid spoken commands from Ninki and a screen demonstrated a document.

"As you can see, Abzu, these are my orders sealed by Enki himself; item three is specific, no time to be lost in effecting the mission," he read and pointed a long, curved nail at the screen, which means that there will be no time to return to Nibiru to question the All-Wise’s precise orders. Do you wish to set your face against Enki? The cold reptilian eyes bored into the junior officer’s over the curved beak. The menace in them was uncompromising.

Abzu trembled, well aware of the awful fate others had encountered by provoking Ninki’s wrath.

No, Commander, I do not wish to question your authority nor the wisdom of the All-Wise. Sometimes my scruples make me reason badly.

I can see you are penitent, so that is settled. We shall now proceed to reprogram the earthling. I will need your medical skills, Abzu, to make the transition perfectly smooth and so the specimen experiences no trauma.

I promise to do my best, Lord. The shorter pointed beak mask that distinguished Abzu’s people from the southern polar region of Nibiru, bobbed up and down in a sign of obeisance, as Ninki was one of the mighty family of Enki, and, as such, among those who had saved their home planet from extinction with the gold from the Earth and other outlying planets thousands of years ago. They had been the ones to genetically engineer apelike creatures and transform them into slaves to mine the vitally-needed gold and transport it to the Nibiru reactors. The human beings created by the Annunaki were imperfect creatures. Their faults had now reached the stage where they threatened the destruction of their planet and the space surrounding it. The infallible Enki had decreed that the experiment would begin. One of the homo sapiens would correct the errors of his species after the remedial work on his body and brain. The only intervention of the Annunaki would be to condition the specimen to succeed alone in the future, without direct alien intervention.

Chapter One

Two days earlier, over North-East Lincolnshire, the United Kingdom

Following the coordinates imposed by Enki, the alien spacecraft hovered over the woodland near the north-east coast of Lincolnshire. The alien mission was blessed by good fortune since an ideal specimen was sitting astride a strange contraption—their advanced devices revealed a means of transport known on the planet as a BMX bike. It also informed them that the subject was a healthy Caucasian male aged eighteen Earth years, thus placing him ideally within Enki’s parameters.

The aliens, therefore, had no hesitation in beaming the earthling aboard their space shuttle along with his bike, which they immediately consigned to a disintegrator. The youth, paralysed with fear, was taken to a restraining cell, where he could not self-harm. Gently encouraged to drink a potion, he slipped into a blissful, restorative sleep designed to fill him with positivity. Within moments, travelling at a speed unimaginable to homo sapiens, the shuttle reached the mother ship, stationed behind the Earth satellite, hence hidden from the prying telescopes that the primitive species used to peer out into the universe.

In his enhanced dream-state, Mark Fisher knew nothing of the docking and transfer to the most advanced vessel in the Annunaki fleet, ship NB46. Inside his head, he pictured the amiable two-legged, two-armed upright creatures with their delightful multi-coloured reflecting scales and curious beaked faces, who only wished him well. But not just well, his brain told him, they wanted to provide him with everything his heart desired. Their yellow slit eyes and strange variety of beaks, giving them a misleadingly reptilian appearance, should not induce him to fear them, his subservient brain persuaded him. After all, wasn’t his cousin Amber crazy about lizards? She nurtured basilisks, skinks, iguanas and geckos—her little dragons, she called them and adored them. Admittedly, they didn’t have bills, but it just showed how loveable reptiles could be.

All these soothing thoughts passed through Mark’s brain while, unknown to him, the aliens strapped him carefully to the table in the analysis laboratory. Within moments, each thought and memory in his brain was transferred via a helmet to the multiprocessor. Not only that but the rest of Mark’s brain, the dormant unused part, was subjected to analysis. So, momentarily, the Lincolnshire youth was brainless but not dead. Quite the opposite. His body had never felt so alive—just that he had no control over it. It would be fair to say that these were the moments that Mark Fisher ceased to exist as an entity.

(TWENTY-FOUR HOURS BEFORE)

Darren Fisher, appropriately to his name, a frozen fish processing operative, confirmed his earlier statement, this time to a detective sergeant, not a uniformed constable as earlier. Meanwhile, Betty, his wife of twenty-seven years, sat weeping into a handkerchief, comforted by a uniformed female officer.

Our Mark goes to Weelsby Woods on his mountain bike every morning at dawn.

Why so early, sir?

Well, he says he likes the air to be pure, and it’s before the early-morning dog walkers get out on the trails. You see, it could cause a nasty accident, Detective Sergeant, at the speed our Mark rides. He always times himself. Only the other day, he told me that he wanted to break the twenty-minute barrier.

So, he always takes the same route?

The sergeant appeared to Darren to be in his early thirties; the factory worker didn’t care much for the shaped sideburns, modishly cut across with parallel lines carefully shaved out, nor for the trendy short back and sides. To be sure, in his day, the army would have liked that, but it wouldn’t have stood for those sideburns. Darren vaguely registered the question and, after a brief hesitation, replied, Oh, yeah. As I told that constable earlier, always the same course.

And do you know the route, sir?

Yeah, I do. I’ve walked it with our Mark and Jasper.

Jasper? Is that another son?

Ha-ha! No. To the detective’s surprise, he let out a sharp whistle, and a Jack Russell terrier skidded across the parquet floor to sit looking from its owner to the police officer. This is Jasper; he’s all right, he won’t hurt you. Not as long as you’re with me and not prowling around alone in his territory.

The policeman looked sourly at the terrier; he preferred big dogs. His favourite breed, given the choice, was the golden retriever. His sister had one, an exceptional dog, Hoffman—named after the actor. DS Carlisle had often wondered why his sister hadn’t called the dog Dustin. Still, there was no accounting for taste. So, sir, why don’t we take a walk through the woods, following Mark’s route? We can take Jasper for a walk— At that word, the dog leapt and barked excitedly.

Come on, let’s get your lead, boy!

DS Carlisle checked his watch, considered what time the sun rose in this autumn season and decided that Mark Fisher had been missing for thirty hours. His preliminary questioning had not detected any reason for Mark to run away from his parents, to whom he seemed particularly attached, and his school report from the Lower Sixth, displayed with pride by his father, seemed to indicate that the lad’s Advanced-level courses were all proceeding very well. Mark had recently applied for and received an offer from the University of Nottingham, dependent on grades.

Thirty hours were not so many for a missing person’s case, Carlisle knew that, but he feared the worst, putting all the elements together. Something untoward had happened to Mark. DS Angus Carlisle felt sure that the young man had not done a runner. A walk along his route, especially with the family dog in tow to sniff out his young master, would reveal Mark if he had been injured and thrown into the undergrowth: or worse.

Onboard the alien craft, the Annunaki were busy. Their primary intention was to reverse the errors of genetic programming committed in Mesopotamia millennia ago. Thus, following Enki’s orders, they perfected the human specimen’s body and brain so that both would be an example of current Annunaki perfection in the field of genetic engineering. Having completed this work in an astonishingly brief time, thanks to the latest Nibirian technology incorporated into the multiprocessor, they set about providing Mark Fisher with new memories; in short, a completely new identity. They had furnished him with a new face, arising from the perfected genetic modifications, hence the earthling would be irresistible to the females of his species, but, following Enki’s orders, they had programmed his brain to resist all female overtures but for the allure of one woman in particular. Sexual attraction would not register in his consciousness except for her. He was also, not so much programmed, as mentally equipped to avoid other pitfalls that weak humanity had proved susceptible to over the ages: drugs, alcohol and other stimulants.

Much preparation time had been devoted to the Earthling Renewal Programme, as it was known on Nibiru. However, the All-Wise had renamed it Adam II, as a reminder of the earlier experiment and the importance of success this time around. Many interventions had been enacted on documentation and archives to create the total credibility of the subject over many years.

The aliens stood back to admire their handiwork. All that remained now was the erasure. That would have to be done aboard the shuttle. It was the stage where Angel’s brain—Enki had selected the name Angel Sirius for Adam Two—would be erased of all memory of the alien presence. A backpack they had provided, containing written material, was ready to help him when he entered his new home, for he was bound to be somewhat disorientated initially. The All-Wise preferred to leave his earthling in the familiar surroundings of his hometown, which they had incorporated into his new memory.

So, now, he would again walk the streets of Cleethorpes at the beginning of his new life. It would be a life destined to change the world, but all in good time. Enki had spoken of the prolonged lifespan of Angel Sirius as sufficient for the Renewal Programme. The All-Wise had hinted at a further debate after the deposition—that moment when the shuttle would deposit Angel Sirius in the back garden of his new home.

Chapter Two

(The first day of a new life)

Under normal circumstances, Mark Fisher would have regained consciousness in a strange garden and asked himself why he was lying flat on the grass. But these were not normal circumstances, and he was not Mark Fisher; he was Angel Sirius, and he knew the garden and house were his. The only mystery that occurred to him was why he was lying outdoors on the grass. He sat up slowly, rubbed his head, noticed that he had a feeling of extreme wellbeing coursing through his veins and an inexplicable sense of happiness. Why the latter should be the case, at the moment, he could not explain. He sprang to his feet, snatched up his backpack and groped in his pocket for the key ring.

Entering the back door, he stared at the familiar objects with the strange sensation that he could not recall buying them, but with a certainty that they were his. He paused at the mirror in the hallway and stared at the handsome features grinning back at him. He turned his head slightly to check on the stubble on his chin—not bad for an eighteen-year-old, he told himself. He pulled his blond fringe from over his eyes and considered a change of hairstyle. He would have to chat with his barber, maybe he could suggest something more suited to his perfect oval face.

He went to the fridge, where he took out a bottle of sparkling mineral water, his favourite drink. Sitting at the table, he wondered what to do. His brain told him there was an urgent project on the back burner, but what was it? It wasn’t school or university. He pursed his lips, certain that with sufficient effort, he would recall it. But as he sipped his water, nothing occurred to him. His eye settled on the rucksack. He didn’t remember packing it so, with some curiosity, he unbuckled it, then unlaced the bow of the drawstring. Inside was a photograph album. It contained prints of himself as a boy, a small, cheerful-looking scamp, playing with a football in the garden, probably of this house. He turned the page and there was a pretty woman, his mother, cuddling him in an armchair. She had wavy, auburn hair that fell over her shoulder. In the next photo, a man, his father, was tackling him to win the football on the grass. His father was tall and athletic-looking in the photo.

The next page contained the bombshell. It was a newspaper cutting: a road accident had happened on the Laceby bypass years ago. A drunken van driver had invaded the lane occupied by the Sirius’s Opel estate car, killing husband and wife instantly. The young boy, Angel, aged four, had been belted into his back seat and survived the crash, physically unscathed. The van driver responsible for the accident had died, too, but a high level of alcohol had been found in his blood, post-mortem—way over the legal limit. The report stated that young Angel would be taken into council care as he had no close relatives in the county. The next photo showed a pleasant suburban house that must have blended perfectly with the neighbouring properties. In other words, nothing marked it out as a council-owned children’s care home.

Angel remembered the other four occupants of various ages in care like him. They had become his friends: Marcus, Amanda, Alan, and Frances. Of course, he had left the house on Gloria Way right after his GCSEs. At nearly seventeen, the Social Services couldn’t prevent him from striking out on his own. The first thing he had done was to reclaim the family home and redecorate. Now he remembered! It also came to mind what he had planned for this week ahead. Before he thought about that, he needed to check the envelope with his exam results inside. He knew he had done well, but even he did a double-take when he saw that he had obtained A-grades in all ten subjects. Was he a genius then? Why wasn’t he intent on an academic career, in that case? Undoubtedly, the next stage would be to sit some Advanced-level exams.

Why didn’t he want to do that? He pinched the bridge of his nose and thought hard. That was it! He had always wanted to be a professional footballer—and why not? He knew that he was the most talented footballer who had ever lived. This conviction was in his head, nowhere else. There was no proof that he could think of.

Snatching up the album again, he rifled through the pages but found nothing that told him he had had a brilliant career in any team at any level. Despite this, he knew that he was superior to anyone else at that sport. He rummaged through the rucksack and almost missed the envelope. He took it out, read the neat handwriting in perfect script, written in an archaic style. The two words, Angel Sirius, leapt out at him. He stood up, feeling energetic: he would have to go for a run soon. Striding over to the dresser, he pulled open a cutlery drawer to select a knife to slit the envelope open. That done, eagerly, he read:

Dear Angel,

You will be asking yourself who wrote this letter. It doesn’t matter; let’s say that it’s from a well-wisher who knows you better than anyone else in the world. Now that you are settled back home, you must enter your chosen profession. Leave no one in doubt that you are the best at it anywhere on Earth. Dedicate yourself entirely to it, single-mindedly, but never forget to be humble and to accumulate as much knowledge about the planet around you as you can.

My very best wishes, dear Angel – remember that your life is an ongoing mission. Never lose sight of that concept. But for now, go out and enjoy yourself.

Best Wishes,

Nammu

Angel replaced the letter in its envelope. Who was the mysterious Nammu? Why hadn’t they declared their relationship to him? Still, the words seared into his brain as if they were some Gospel: they tallied absolutely with his desires and convictions. But now he must go upstairs to change into a tracksuit and running shoes.

Outside, he set off at a remarkable pace, reaching the main Clee Road, which he recalled ended at a roundabout, which would take him down Grimsby Road towards the twin-town of that name. As his sweatshirt grew damp and clung to his muscular chest, he failed to notice the admiring glances of female shoppers. Instead, he concentrated on the wonderful sensation of his perfectly coordinated limbs carrying him along the footpath at a remarkably brisk pace. He didn’t feel any deficit of lactic acid; instead, his speed increased slightly, whereas another runner would be slowing at this stage. He noticed the floodlights towering over the buildings across the road to his right. Blundell Park, the home of the local football team, Grimsby Town FC, sadly recently relegated from the Football League, but now proudly ensconced at the top of the Conference Premier League.

He slowed to a walk, crossed the road and walked down Blundell Avenue. The black and white painted exterior in the club’s colours with red trimmings pleased him, but he asked himself, If I am the best footballer in the world, should I start in such a lowly club? The answer came in a flash as if implanted in his brain, which it was. Of course, he would take Grimsby Town back from nowhere to the very pinnacle of English football.

But how? He had no football curriculum: nothing! All he had was the brazen certainty that he could do anything that he liked with a football and that he was the fittest man in the country. How did he know these things? He knew because his head told him so. For now, he needed to run home and shower. Then, he would go out to buy the best set of football boots that he could afford. Now that was a point. Money? Did he have any? Of course he did, he was rich! He knew that—his head told him so. Still, he didn’t have any money to hand. He would need to search his house.

He raced back home, unlocked the front door and grabbed the rucksack, somehow knowing that the answer would be there. It was. Previously, he hadn’t checked the side pockets of the bag. That was the first thing he did. He found a current passport with his photograph, issued just one year ago and valid for ten years, inside one. In another pocket, he found a wallet, and it contained a medical card, credit and debit cards, plus many banknotes totalling six hundred and fifty-five pounds. So, no problem as far as football boots were concerned. What about food? He checked the fridge-freezer. The freezer was crammed with food, essentially ready-made meals that just needed heating. Funny, he couldn’t remember stocking up. Strange how he was only remembering things as he went along, as if he had suffered amnesia and was now awakening memories piecemeal. For example, he now knew which bank his cards belonged to. If anyone had asked him ten minutes ago, he would not have been able to answer, but strangely, he had known all along!

So, what’s the plan, Angel? he asked aloud. "I should get the boots, call into the bank to see how my funds are, then find out what I can about the football club. And what about transport? There’s no driving licence in my wallet.