Blasphemy (37 page)

Nobody spoke.

Hazelius went on. “Tony, we can buy ourselves a little time, and it won’t cost us. We’ll tell them the door wasn’t functioning, the communications systems were down, the computer crashed. We can finesse this. We can keep the doors shut and still come out of this without serious charges.”

“They’ll have a demolition kit. They’ll blow the door,” said Wardlaw, his voice high and tense.

“Let them,” said Hazelius. He grasped Wardlaw’s shoulder gently, gave it an affectionate shake, as if to wake him up. “Tony, Tony.
We might be talking to God
. Don’t you understand?”

Wardlaw said, after a moment, “I understand.”

Hazelius looked around. “Are we all in this together?” His eyes traveled around the room and locked on Ford. He must have seen the skepticism in Ford’s eyes. “Wyman?”

Ford said, “I’m astonished you think there’s a possibility we may be talking to God.”

“If not God, then who is it?” Hazelius asked.

Ford glanced around at the others. He wondered who else could see that Hazelius was finally losing it. “Just what you’ve said all along. A fraud. Sabotage.”

Melissa Corcoran suddenly spoke up. “If that’s what you still think, Wyman, then I’m sorry for you.”

Ford turned to her, astonished. There was a new look in her face that stopped him. Gone was the insecure young woman restlessly seeking affection. She looked radiantly serene, her eyes flashing with self-confidence.

“You think this is God?” Ford asked incredulously.

“I don’t know why you’re so surprised,” she said. “Don’t you believe in God?”

“Yes, but not
this
God!”

“How do you know?”

Ford faltered. “Come on! God would never contact us in this crazy way.”

“You think it’s less crazy for God to impregnate a virgin who produces a son who then brings the message to Earth?”

Ford could hardly believe his ears. “I’m telling you, this is
not
God.”

Corcoran shook her head. “Wyman, don’t you realize what’s happened here? Don’t you get it? We’ve made the greatest scientific discovery of all time:
We’ve discovered God
.”

Ford looked about the group. His eyes ended up locked into Kate’s, standing next to him. For a long moment they looked at each other. He could hardly believe what he saw: her eyes were brimming with emotion. She squeezed his hand, dropped it, and smiled. “I’m sorry, Wyman. You know Melissa and I don’t always see eye to eye. But now . . . well.” She reached out and clasped Corcoran’s hand. “I agree with her.”

Ford stared at the two adversaries suddenly together. “How could a rational human being possibly think that . . .
thing
”—he pointed at the screen—“is God?”

“What surprises me,” Kate said, her voice calm, “is that you
don’t
see it. Review the evidence. The space-time hole. It’s real. I did the calculations. It’s a wormhole or a flux tube into a parallel universe—a universe that exists right next to ours, incredibly close, almost but not quite touching, our two universes like two sheets of paper that have been balled up together. All we did was poke a hole through our piece of paper to expose a tiny piece of the one next to us. And that parallel universe is where . . . God lives.”

“Kate, you can’t be serious.”

“Wyman, forget everything else and just listen to the words.
Just the words
. This is the first time in my life that I’ve actually heard the simple truth spoken. It’s like the pealing ofbells after years ofsilence. What this . . . what
God
is saying is just so incredibly
true
.”

Ford looked around the circular room and fixed on Edelstein. Edelstein, the ultimate skeptic. The man’s dark, triumphant eyes returned the look.

“Alan, help me out here.”

“I’ve never shopped around for God,” Edelstein said. “I’ve been a resolute atheist all my life. I don’t need God—never have, never will.”

“At least someone agrees with me,” said Ford with relief.

Edelstein smiled. “Which makes my conversion all the more telling.”

“Your conversion?”

“That’s correct.”

“You . . .
believe
?”

“Of course. I’m a mathematician. I live and die by logic. And by logic, this thing speaking to us is some higher power. Call it God, call it the primum mobile, call it the Great Spirit, it doesn’t matter.”

“I call it a fraud.”

“Where’s your evidence? No programmer has ever written code that survived the Turning test. Nor is there a computer built—not even Isabella’s supercomputer brain—capable of true AI. You cannot explain how it knew Kate’s numbers or Gregory’s names. Most importantly, I, like Kate, recognize the profound truth it propounds. If not God, it’s a highly intelligent entity from this or another universe, and therefore preternatural. Yes, I take it at face value. The simplest explanation obtains. Occam’s razor.”

“Besides,” said Chen, “that output was coming straight from CZero. How do you explain that?”

Ford looked at the others, from Dolby’s fine ebony face, wet with tears, to the shaking delirium that seemed to be taking hold of Julie Thibodeaux’s body . . . .
Unbelievable
, thought Ford.
Look at them all. They all believe it
. Michael Cecchini, his normally dead face suddenly alive, radiant . . . Rae Chen . . . Harlan St. Vincent . . . George Innes . . . all of them. Even Wardlaw, who in this impossible security crisis ignored his security feeds and instead gazed on Hazelius with slavish, sycophantish adoration.

Clearly he’d missed a dark and alarming dynamic in the team all along. Even in Kate,
especially
Kate.

“Wyman, Wyman,” said Hazelius soothingly. “You’re emoting.
We
are thinking. That’s what we do best.”

Ford took a step backward. “This isn’t about God. It’s just some hacker telling you what you want to hear. And you’re falling for it.”

“We’re falling for it
because it’s the truth
,” said Hazelius. “I know it in my intellect and in my bones. Look at us: me, Alan, Kate, Rae, Ken—all of us. Could we
all
be wrong? Scientific skepticism is in our blood. We’re steeped in it. No one can accuse us of credulity. What makes you more prescient than us?”

Ford had no answer.

Hazelius said, “We’re losing valuable time.” He turned calmly to the screen and spoke. “Continue, please. You have our full attention.”

Could they be right?
Could it be God
? Ford turned back to the next message on the screen with grim foreboding.

FROM HIS HILL AT THE EDGE of the staging area, with Doke at his side, Eddy watched the stream of vehicles arrive. In the last hour, several hundred of them had poured up over the lip of the Dugway, first dirt bikes, ATVs, and Jeeps, and then pickups, motorcycles, SUVs, and cars. The arrivals brought tales of hindrance and obstruction. State police roadblocks had gone up on I-40, Route 89 through Grey Mountain and Route 160 at Cow Springs, but the faithful had found ways around on the warren of dirt roads that crisscrossed the Rez.

The vehicles were parking in a disorganized mass just beyond the top of the Dugway, but, Eddy mused, it didn’t matter how they parked. Nobody would drive home. They were heading home another way—via the Rapture.

At times the oncoming horde seemed anarchic: loud voices, wailing toddlers, drunks, even people on drugs. But those who had arrived early greeted and organized the newcomers with prayer, Bible verses, and the Word. At least a thousand worshippers massed in the open area in front of his hill, waiting for instructions. Many carried Bibles and crosses. Some carried guns. Others had brought whatever weapon first came to hand, from iron skillets and kitchen knifes to sledgehammers, axes, machetes, and brush hooks. Boys carried slingshots, BB guns, and baseball bats. Others brought two-way radios, which Eddy requisitioned and distributed to a small group he had selected as his commanders, keeping one for himself.

Eddy was surprised at the number of children—even mothers nursing babies. Children at Armageddon? But it made sense when he thought about it. These were the End Times. All would be raptured into heaven together.

“Hey,” said Doke, nudging Eddy. “Cop car.”

Eddy followed his gesture. There, in the line of traffic coming up the Dugway, a lone police car was inching along, its lights flashing.

He turned back toward his new flock. The gathering crowd surged and flowed, their murmuring voices mingling like rain. Flashlights flickered, and he could hear the clink of metal on metal, slides being racked, shotguns pumped. One man was making torches out of bundles of dead piñon branches and passing them around. The discipline was extraordinary.

“I’m trying to think what to say to them,” Eddy said.

“You gotta be careful, talking to cops,” said Doke.

“I mean my sermon. To the Lord’s army, before we set out,” said Eddy.

“Yeah, but what about this cop?” said Doke. “There’s only one car, but he’s got a radio. This could be trouble.”

Eddy watched the flashing lights, surprised that some people were actually pulling over at the turnouts to let the squad car pass. Old habits of obedience to government, to authority, were going to die hard. That was what he’d talk about. How, from now on, their only obedience was to God.

“He’s coming up the Dugway,” said Doke.

The sound of the siren soon reached the mesa top, faint at first, then louder. The seething crowd grew thicker, spreading out in front of him, waiting for direction. Many were praying, their petitions rising into the night air. Groups of people held hands, their heads bowed. The sound of hymns reached his ears. It reminded Eddy of how he imagined things were when people gathered for the Sermon on the Mount. That’s it. That’s where he’d start his sermon. “
Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God . . .
.” No, that wasn’t a good Bible verse to start with. Something more arousing: “
Woe to the inhabiters of the earth and of the sea! for the devil is come down unto you, having great wrath, because he knoweth that he hath but a short time
.” The Antichrist. That’s what he had to focus on. The Antichrist. Just a few words and he would lead his army forward.

The cop car topped the rim, still stuck in the mass of cars. It came down the stretch of asphalt and pulled off to the side a few hundred yards away. Eddy could see the emblem of the Navajo Nation Tribal Police on the door. A spotlight on the roof shone around; then a door opened. A tall Indian got out, a Navajo policeman. Even from a hundred yards off, Eddy recognized Bia.

At once, the policeman was surrounded by people. From what Eddy could hear, it sounded like an argument was developing.

“What do we do now, Pastor Russ?” people called.

“We wait,” he said in a voice strong and low, so different from his normal voice that he wondered if it was even him speaking. “God will show us the way.”

LIEUTENANT BIA FACED THE CROWD, HIS feeling of uneasiness growing. He’d gotten the call about some kind of disturbance at Red Mesa and he’d assumed it was the protest ride, and when he’d seen the heavy traffic on the Red Mesa road he’d joined it. But as he looked around, he could see that whoever these people were, they had nothing to do with the protest ride. These people carried guns and swords, crosses and axes, Bibles and kitchen knives. Some had painted crosses on their foreheads and their clothes. It was some kind of cult gathering—perhaps connected to that television preacher’s sermon he’d heard people talking about. He was relieved to see it consisted of people of all races—blacks, Asians, even a few who looked Navajo or Apache. At least it wasn’t the KKK or Aryan Nations.

He tucked up his belt and put his hands on his hips, facing the crowd with an easy smile, hoping not to spook anyone. “You folks got a leader? Someone I can talk to?”

A man in faded Wranglers and a blue workshirt stepped forward. He had a heavy face burned brown from a lifetime in the fields, a large gut, short thick arms that stood away from his body, and callused hands. An old Colt M1917 Revolver with ivory handles was shoved under his diamondback belt, a polished brass crucifix mounted on its buckle. “Yeah. We have a leader. His name’s God. Who are you?”

“Lieutenant Bia, Tribal Police.” He felt a twinge at the man’s unnecessarily belligerent tone. But he would play it cool, not confrontational. “What person is in charge here?”

“Lieutenant Bia, I’ve got just
one
question for you: Are you a Christian here for the fight?”

“The fight?”

“Armageddon.”

For emphasis, the man rested a palm on the Colt’s ivory-handled butt.

Bia swallowed. The crowd closed in on him. He wished he’d radioed for backup. “I’m a Christian, but I haven’t heard of any Armageddon.”

The crowd fell silent.

“Have you been born again in the water of life?” the man continued.

From the crowd rose a sharp murmur. Bia took a deep breath. No point in getting in a religious pissing contest with these people. Better to tone things down. “Why don’t you tell me about this Armageddon?”

“The Antichrist is here. On this very mesa. The battle of the Lord God Almighty is at hand. Either you’re with us or you’re against us. The time is now. Make your decision.”

Bia had no idea how to respond to this. “I guess you folks know this is the Navajo Nation, and you’re trespassing on land leased to the U.S. government.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

The crowd tightened the ring around him. Bia could feel their agitation and smell it in their sweat.

“Sir,” he said in a low voice, “keep your hand away from your firearm.”

The man’s hand did not move.

“I said,
move
your hand
away
from the firearm.”

The man’s hand closed on the gun butt. “You’re either with us or against us. Which is it?”

When Bia didn’t answer, the man turned and spoke to the crowd. “He’s not one of us. He’s come to fight for the other side.”

“What do you expect?” someone cried, echoed by the crowd. “What do you expect?”