Anomaly (13 page)

“Listen to yourselves,” he began. “Just stop and think about what you're asking and how irrelevant it is to any discussion about the anomaly.”

“Oh, it is very relevant,” insisted the Reverend Stark.

“Really?” asked Teller. “And I suppose the fact our Buddhist monk here does not believe in any kind of god at all is of no relevance. Doesn't that make him an atheist? But because he's sincere in his religious convictions, so you'll tolerate him.”

Teller felt the adrenaline surging in his neck as he spoke. His hands were trembling. He was surprised to see how deeply stirred he was as he spoke.

“And I suppose your refusal to acknowledge the Hindu gods also has no relevance? Even though, from their perspective, it is you that is the atheist.”

“How dare you?” snapped the Reverend Stark. “This is an interfaith commune group. We have respect for each other's beliefs.”

“Respect?” Teller replied, feeling the reverend was being disingenuous. He struggled to find something to say that wouldn't inflame the situation further. Cathy grimaced.

Reverend Johnson tried to calm things down, saying, “Let's take things back a step or two.”

But the Reverend Stark would have none of it. “I did not come here to be insulted,” he said. “Answer the damn question.”

“To be fair,” said Cathy, interrupting, “I think there is a valid point here. Religion is, by definition, exclusive. If I believe in God according to your definition, then I'm an infidel according to everyone else at this table. To believe in one religion is to exclude the others.”

“Are you an atheist as well?” asked the reverend, staring down the table at Cathy.

“I am ashamed of you,” said the Reverend Johnson, cutting into the argument in defense of Teller and Cathy. “You're obsessed by this. You've got to put everyone in your little, fundamentalist box. You just don't get it, do you? This is an opportunity to learn, an opportunity to explore, an opportunity to grow, but you'd rather descend back into the dark ages where your faith is unchallenged.”

Damn, thought Teller, Reverend Johnson has moxie.

“Don't you see what this is?” asked Teller, seizing on the lull to bring the conversation back to the anomaly. “We have the chance to talk to an intelligence beyond our own.”

“Some of us already do that,” the Reverend Stark replied coldly. “It's called prayer.”

“Do you see our concern?” asked the archbishop, picking up on the train of thought started by the fundamentalist minister. “We have our God. To us, this anomaly is being presented as a false god, a deity promoted by science. When the Spanish first landed in South America, the Aztec worshiped them as gods. It seems this same trend is unfolding before us today and that is dangerous. It's wrong.”

“To you,” he continued, “this may seem petty or irrelevant, but the scriptures foretell of the end times. They speak of lying signs and wonders. They speak of a strong delusion that causes the elect to believe a lie. To us, the anomaly is a godless wonder bewitching the people.”

“But it's not,” pleaded Teller. “It is the opportunity for a new beginning.”

“And that is blasphemy,” the Reverend Stark countered. “The only new beginning will come when Christ returns as the King of Kings to start his reign of a thousand years.”

Teller responded instantly, without missing a beat, almost jumping out of his seat.

“And that is blasphemy to him, him, him and him,” he said, pointing at the Hindu, the Buddhist, the Muslim Imam and the Jewish Rabbi.

Reverend Stark simmered in silence, his teeth clenched in anger.

“When you get in an airplane,” said Cathy, turning the topic around quite innocently, “do you care about the religious beliefs of the person that built it? Or do you care about the science behind it?”

Teller liked how she shifted the argument. It was a legitimate point. She may be soft spoken, but she was sharp.

“And these days,” he added, picking up on her logic, “most planes are held together with little more than glue. There are no welds. There's not a pop-rivet or a nut and bolt in sight, and yet we trust them. But why? Neither you nor I have read the scientific reviews, we haven't studied the methodology or even seen the test results. And yet we inherently trust the science behind an airplane. Why? Because we trust in progress. We trust the rigor of scientific expertise constantly refining and correcting itself.

“And that's the key. We don't trust science because it gets everything right. We trust science because, regardless of whether it gets things right or wrong, it measures, it records, it calibrates, it learns, it changes, it refines and it corrects. And that process of transparency and open review has transformed the world in which we live for the better.”

“We have to be willing to learn,” said the Reverend Johnson. “We should be excited about the times in which we live, not afraid of them. There's too much uncertainty already, too much fear. Our people look to us for comfort, for stability, for assurance. We need to embrace the future, not to rail against it.”

Cathy leaned forward, wanting a better view of the participants further down the table.

“Will we make mistakes with the anomaly?” she asked. “Sure. It would be surprising if we didn't. But we will ensure there is transparency, we will ensure the world shares in each discovery. The research into the anomaly isn't being conducted to threaten religious values, or to overthrow the role of religion in society, it's being undertaken with a sense of adventure, like the explorers of old, like Magellan and Columbus.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Teller caught some movement back stage. The Marine that drove them to the meeting walked out on stage and whispered in his ear as Reverend Johnson pleaded with Reverend Stark for understanding.

“If we spend our time fighting each other, we're failing to understand each other. Is that what Christ would want?”

“I'm sorry,” said Teller, interrupting Reverend Johnson. He put his hand gently on Cathy's forearm as he stood up. “We've been informed we're needed urgently back at the research center. Thank you for the opportunity to be here today. I apologize for arriving late and leaving early, but we'll have to continue this debate another time.”

The Marine directed them toward the backstage area. Cathy smiled, waving at the restless crowd, trying to instill one last act of openness and kindness into the torrid debate.

Teller smiled for the crowd before whispering in her ear. “We need to get the hell out of here.”

The chair of the debate started recapping the main points as they left the stage.

“What is going on?” asked Cathy as they were hurried out the back door and into the waiting Hummer.

“The crowd outside is getting violent,” said the Marine as they climbed in the vehicle. “The police have started firing tear gas to disperse the protesters, but it's getting ugly. The police chief is concerned about your safety. I need to get you out of here, now, before things get any worse.”

“Where is our escort?” asked Cathy, noticing their police detail was gone.

“They're not due back till three, at the close of the conference. We can't wait that long. We need to go now.”

And with that their Hummer headed north.

Within a few minutes, they were heading north along 6
^th
Avenue and passed the Holland tunnel. Before long, burnt out vehicles blocked sections of the road, making progress slow. The driver cut across to Hudson St, driving away from Midtown, on an angle away from the UN building on 1
^st
Avenue.

“Where are we going?” asked Teller, leaning forward from the back of the Hummer. “Why don't you just take Houston over to the FDR?”

“I'm sorry, sir,” replied the young Marine. “I didn't want to worry you. Command has re-routed us through the Village and up around Hell's Kitchen. Midtown's a powder keg. They want me to bring you in from the north. Apparently, it's quieter.”

“So we get to tour New York,” said Cathy, realizing their four mile journey had just been extended to ten miles and God knows how many hours.

A burnt out semi-trailer blocked the road, forcing them onto a side street and over onto Greenwich St, but they were making better time than they did on the more direct route down to the town hall.

The streets were quiet. The ride was rough. Rocks, stones and the odd tear gas canister littered the concrete roads. Dark smoke rose up from several parts of the city. There were few cars on the road now, just the odd emergency vehicle. Gangs of youths walked the streets.

Reports came in over the radio of a riot at Penn Station, so they cut across to 10
^th
Avenue, all the while moving further away from 1
^st
Avenue. As they approached the Lincoln tunnel, Teller realized they were roughly level with the UN complex on the East side. He looked East, out over the haze toward where he knew the anomaly was located even though it wasn't visible at that distance. He figured they had to be ten to fifteen blocks away, at most. He could have walked that in the time they'd already been on the road.

“How much further north?” asked Cathy, also realizing where they were.

“I've been told to head up to 59
^th
before heading East.”

“That's Lower Manhattan,” said Teller, surprised. “Right on Central Park.”

“Affirmative,” replied the Marine.

“Is this really necessary?” asked Cathy.

“Yes, ma'am. It's for your safety.”

“But not your comfort,” Teller joked.

Cathy smiled as she settled back into the seat beside him. The seatbelt was designed for men, she noted, muttering under her breath to Teller. It was coarse and cut across her chest at an uncomfortable angle. For his part, Teller noted that the US Marines hadn't heard of inner springs, feeling the hard bench below the thin foam mat covering the seat.

“What's your name?” asked Teller, realizing he didn't even know the name of their driver.

“Corporal John Davies,” replied the Marine.

“How long have you been in the Marines, John?” asked Cathy.

For Corporal Davies, it was strange to be called by his first name while on duty. It was nice.

“Four years,” he replied.

“How did you end up on the anomaly detail?” asked Teller.

“I'm a heavy lifter, sir,” replied the corporal. “Working closely with the SEALs, assisting with—”

He never finished his sentence.

In a blinding flash, the windscreen erupted in flames, bathing the inside of the vehicle in brilliant strands of crimson, burnt orange and fiery yellow. From where Teller sat in the back of the vehicle, he could feel the searing heat lash at his exposed forearms and face. The Marine swung the Hummer hard to the right, clipping the side of a parked car before plowing headlong up onto the curb.

The Hummer slammed into the corner of a ten-story brick apartment building.

For Teller, everything happened in slow motion. The vehicle came to a thundering halt, but his momentum continued forward and it felt as though he was thrown out of the seat. The seatbelt locked. Teller twisted sideways as the anchor point held him back. He felt his hip catch as the belt cut into his waist, drawing blood. His hands flew forward, as did his head, whipping down and back.

Cathy screamed. Her hair lashed out before him. And as quickly as it had begun, they came to a painful stop.

Fire danced across the crushed hood of the Hummer. Bricks fell on the smoldering vehicle, drumming out a crack and boom as they pelted the sheet metal.

Cathy groaned.

Teller popped open his seatbelt and fell forward. His ears were ringing, his forehead thumping.

He turned to Cathy. She was dazed, struggling to comprehend what had happened. She released her belt as Teller fought to open the door. Fire lapped at the tires on the Hummer. Black acrid smoke wafted in the air. Stumbling out onto the road, Teller fell to his knees.

Cathy looked around as she stepped out into the bright sunlight behind him. They were on the far side of an intersection. People were running back and forth. It took a few seconds for them to realize the crowd was moving in unison, surging up and then back down the road. They'd driven through a riot, coming into it from the side.

Teller struggled to his feet, dazed, looking out at the riot. The men were all young and fit. Probably in their late teens or early twenties, he thought, trying to make sense of the situation. They were wearing bandannas over their faces. At first, he figured it was because of the smoke, but then he realized they were hiding their identity as they hurtled rocks and Molotov cocktails at the approaching police.

Turning back toward the Hummer, Teller realized the Marine hadn't moved. He fought with the front door of the vehicle, prying it open. Corporal Davies lay slumped over the drab olive-green steering wheel. Blood dripped from a gash on the side of his head. His seatbelt sat coiled to one side, ready to be pulled down and into place. Bad habit, thought Teller, as he grabbed at the Marine. The heat from the flames radiated outward, scorching his hands. He pulled the corporal out of the vehicle and dragged him away from the burning Hummer.

Tear gas canisters bounced through the intersection leaving a trail of smoke curling behind them as they skidded past the burning vehicle. The crack of rubber bullets being fired cut through the noise and confusion around them.

More youths joined the fray, coming in from a narrow alley, catching the police line from the side and hurtling rocks at them. The police began falling back, dragging their injured with them.

An armored personnel carrier with a water cannon hosed down the youths, but the burst of a Molotov cocktail forced it back. The tank-like vehicle covered the retreating officers as it took repeated fiery hits.

Cathy was overwhelmed by the noise, the screaming, the yelling. She had her hands up, covering her ears. Teller placed the corporal down some twenty feet further along the road, away from the burning wreck of the Hummer.