Authors: Brian Herbert
Tags: #Comics & Graphic Novels, #General, #Fiction, #Religious
The Race for God (21 page)
The flies didn’t flinch, and Jin’s eyes remained closed. Not a muscle on the Plarnjarn moved, not even on his arms, which he held in place like shields.
McMurtrey pulled back a little.
Jin’s forearms remained in midair above the flies, and the protected ones must have been laughing in their black little hearts.
Soon McMurtrey heard the words from behind clearly. “Plarnjarns oppose violence,” Corona said. “Did you forget? His broom . . . not even an insect?”
“Aw, priest piss! These ain’t yer ordinary garden variety insects. They don’t deserve to be life forms!”
“The decision is not yours.”
Angrily, McMurtrey rose to his feet. His eyes smoldered.
No further motion from Jin or the flies.
“Sanctuary,” she said. “They must sense it, must know the safety of his presence.”
McMurtrey shook his head in utter disgust, stalked past Corona toward his own berth.
“Shall we resume?” she asked.
“I’m out of the mood,” he said, A deep breath, then without looking at her: “Sorry. Look. I’m pretty tired, didn’t sleep last night. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
She nodded.
He had been going on adrenalin, pumped by the excitement of events. The night he blessed all the ships with Orbust’s men seemed long ago, but it had been only that morning, in predawn hours. He felt the heaviness of his body as it sought rest, and his corneas grated against his eyelids.
McMurtrey entered his area, dropped the screen and plopped on the bed. He sighed. He had been remarkably bold, with some success. This mula-black actually liked him, despite his fat and despite his tantrum over the flies. But like the screen around him now, he had thrown up a barrier, a shield to keep them from making love. If not for the flies it would have been something else, something less convenient. A headache, or sudden fatigue.
But he hadn’t felt fatigued at all, until afterward. Would he have gone through with it? He had made love with women before, but this one—despite his burst of elan—this one frightened him. She was stronger than he in innumerable ways. He’d initiated the kissing, but she’d teased him into it… and she grabbed the lead afterward. She was probably like that in bed. This woman had performed men’s jobs, had been the captain of star freighters.
Was she a woman?
McMurtrey’s gut reaction told him yes. Any doubts he harbored were easily dispelled. But she was a lot of woman, more than he could handle. She didn’t keep her promise about chicken jokes, either, and with that witty, jocular streak in her nature, McMurtrey foresaw a relationship in which he would be eternally on the defensive. He didn’t particularly relish that, but realized the Grand Exalted Rooster deserved whatever came to pass. He had brought it all on himself.
Jin’s screen dropped only seconds after McMurtrey’s. When he was secure from prying eyes, the blue bone blades in Jin’s fingertips darted forth, and in two precision thrusts he decapitated three flies. Tiny body parts tumbled soundlessly to the deck. Jin smiled cruelly, flicked them aside with his broom.
These
pilgrims have no idea who I am,
he thought. Cool, smooth currents of electricity traversed the superconductors of his artificial brain. He felt safe in his little niche, for he had been programmed to feel this way.
He touched his nose, and mini-cannon gunports opened around his body. His penis, with a baby howitzer in it, rose to firing position.
With silencers and what he thought were blank cartridges, he tested the guns. All fired, but one live mini-cannon shell ripped a hole in the headboard wall.
He cursed to himself, and at a thought-impulse a lance of violet light emerged from his right eye, entering the bulkhead hole. This enabled him to see inside the wall, and he was surprised to encounter no electrical wires, pipes or parts. Only a spacer between walls. He detected no change in the ship’s course, heard no emergency Klaxons or flurry of activity.
His sensors told him it was substantially warmer inside the hole than in the passenger areas of the ship.
He withdrew the lance of light, and disjointed thoughts fired through his cyberoo circuits. This ship was strange, an unknown, but the Bureau hadn’t programmed him to investigate it. Could that mean his superiors had overlooked the ship itself, or that some other operative had been assigned to the matter? He didn’t know of any other agents aboard, but that meant nothing.
Confine yourself to your assignment.
Thick yellow fluid oozed from the top of the wall hole, filling it. In an instant the hole could no longer be seen, and where it had been was the silver-gray of the wall.
Jin’s circuits heated up.
At a thermally programmed thought-impulse these troubling thoughts were erased. But others took their place.
Among other things, the Bureau of Loyalty had programmed him to watch for disloyal pilgrims, reporting on their activities via scrambled radio transmission to the Pentadox. The ship was out of transmitting range now, and it seemed obvious that the Bureau had not expected a journey of this distance.
What if they actually encountered God?
Jin had no specific instructions to kill God or humans. But under certain conditions he was permitted, even encouraged, to erase life. Via his Possibilities Scanner he envisioned circumstances under which he might be forced to kill God, particularly if he discovered that God was a threat to the continuance of the Bureau.
Chapter 8
Institutions always lie, and the bigger the institution, the bigger the lie.
—
Guiding Principles
,
The Cult of Anarchy
In Johnny Orbust’s cabin with the screen down, he sat against a pillow on the bed, with C.T. Tully and the priest Kundo Smith at the table. It was a full D’Urth day after the confrontation with Singh, and Orbust wore bulbous quick-healing packs on his arms and legs. The grayish-white packs were not that cumbersome to wear, and already he was getting some movement back in areas that a short while before had been flaming centers of pain. He had another pack over his face, and it was sealed tightly to the skin around his eyes so that he peered through little bank-robber slits.
His quick-draw Babul lay beside its holster, on a wall shelf.
“It would be nice if we could beat everyone else to God,” Orbust said. He draped one leg over the bed, tapped a foot on the deck. In his mind’s eye he envisioned himself reaching God first, alone. If only there were a way.
“Well, we can’t kill everyone on this ship to do it,” Smith said. He picked at a small red spot under his chin, probably an ingrown hair.
“We can’t?” Tully said. “Why not?” He had his notebook open on the table, and was doodling with calligraphy as he spoke.
“God wouldn’t like that,” Orbust said. “It wouldn’t be right. Besides, Appy told us the other ships are in-flight, right behind us.”
“I say we blast the infidels out of space,” Tully said. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.”
“With what?” Orbust asked. “My chemstrip wouldn’t handle that, even if I could get it back from those fanatics.” He hadn’t said what he felt, that he wouldn’t consciously do violence to anyone. Disabling ships before takeoff had been one thing; blasting them out of space with people aboard was altogether different.
Smith looked like a strange red-necked blackbird. His nose hooked downward into a beak facsimile, and his eyes were small but alert to danger, constantly flitting about in their sockets. “I dunno,” he said. “Prayer?”
Orbust nodded. “And more. We need to spread our faith in every corner of the universe, propagating Krassianism like—”
“Like jack rabbits screwing?” Smith asked.
“Both of you have foul mouths,” Orbust said. “No, I was going to say like seeds on the wind.”
“Aw, don’t give us that shit,” Tully said. “You’re the one who packed a heater and a demolitions kit aboard. We didn’t do anything like that.”
“That gun was for intimidation only. I’ve never used it, never would. The chemstrip . . . well, that’s just a gadget. I’ve always been a sucker for gadgets. My wife used to call me a gadget freak.”
Orbust thought of his wife, Karin, and of the note he had left for her. He didn’t miss her, didn’t think of her much. Their marriage hadn’t worked, had been over long before he made his break.
Tully made the cheeks of his face concave, rubbed them thoughtfully with a thumb and forefinger.
Orbust had been increasingly frightened by his own wild behavior, especially as it concerned his gun. What if he had gotten into a situation where he had to use the weapon or die? Could he have done it?
If he had been angry enough, if someone insulted his beliefs deeply enough, maybe he could have. He’d considered this briefly before, but not enough. He felt relieved at the loss of the gun, wished he’d had the foresight to have disposed of it himself, without the embarrassment that resulted.
What a fool I was, lunging for the Snapcard. But that heathen made me mad, putting his foot on it.
Orbust refocused, said, “We’ve already compared faiths, and the essential elements of our beliefs track pretty well. I’d like to begin my own propagation by cleaning up your mouths.”
“Mommy wants us to suck soap,” Smith said.
“You wanna convert somebody,” Orbust said, “you aren’t going to do it by telling them to get the hell with it.”
The men laughed.
Orbust grimaced, for his rib cage hurt when he laughed. He hadn’t sworn in many years, vowed he wouldn’t again. He had used the word instructively, to teach these fools.
“All right,” Smith said. “I can handle what you’re saying.”
“Yeah,” Tully said. “I can too. And beyond that?”
“We hit the Krassians who are closest to our beliefs,” Orbust said, “consolidate that as much as we can in our direction and fan out from there.”
That’s kind of what I have in mind,
Orbust thought.
Except I’ll refine it a bit further when these guys aren’t paying attention.
“The trouble is,” Orbust continued aloud, “we don’t know how much time we have before we get to God’s galaxy. So we’ll have to move quickly.”
“We need your chemstrip and Snapcard back,” Smith said. “With that Snapcard you could outdebate anyone. That would speed conversions up.”
“I know” Orbust said, glowering. “The sooner the better, but we don’t need to wait for that stuff. I assume Zatima has all of it?”
Smith and Tully shrugged.
“I only saw ’em get the gun,” Tully said.
The calf of one leg itched, and Orbust rubbed it against the other leg. This effort shot pain up the leg that he moved, and he closed his eyes momentarily until the pain subsided. If only he had the Snapcard back. It strengthened him, gave him confidence. Ideas were essential, along with the ability to phrase them succinctly. What would he do now?
Smith: “Johnny, who were those weirdoes I saw you talking with in the infirmary?”
“You were there? I didn’t see you.”
“Yeah. I peeked in from the corridor, but you looked busy.”
“They didn’t say exactly who they were,” Orbust said. “The saffron-robed ones were Hoddhist monks—they were in my assembly room. I don’t know about the other two.”
“The others wore white peasant outfits,” Smith explained to Tully.
Tully nodded. “I’ve seen ’em around.”
“Maybe there’s a little backlash we can capitalize on,” Orbust said. “Those guys came to wish me well and said the ParKekh had gone too far.”
“The sympathy angle,” Smith said. “Yeah, we can work that one.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Tully said, impatiently. “Look, so far none of us have given up any of our beliefs. But the time will come when we three will have to settle accounts and agree which system is the best. Johnny, you’re a Reborn Krassee, I’m a Found-Againer, and Smith is a NuNu Pentecostalist. Our beliefs are close, but not identical. That dumb belief you have for example, Johnny, about—”
“Don’t start!” Orbust snapped. “We’ve been down that road, and I thought we smoothed it out pretty well. Set it aside, Tully. Look at it this way: God put us together on this ship as a force for Krassianism, a force for God’s love. It’s our destiny to move like a three-pronged wedge through the throng of heathens. If we turn on ourselves, all is lost.”
“And exactly what do we tell the heathens?” Tully asked. “There are specific points of disagreement between us.”
“Don’t talk about those things,” Orbust suggested. “Hit only the areas where we agree—one God, Immaculate Conception, Dual Resurrection, all those Babul interpretations we discussed. . . . You know what I’m saying.”
Tully found a toothpick, chewed on it. Finally he nodded in assent, but he looked like a man forced to set his fight aside.
“When we do have it out,” Tully said presently, “we’ll do it without your damned Snapcard, Johnny. Agreed?”
Orbust hesitated, then said with some difficulty, “Agreed.”
“The task ahead is not an easy one,” Smith said. “But we must make the effort.”
“Hear! hear!” Tully said.
“Onward Krassian Soldiers,” Smith rasped.
“After consolidating the Krassians,” Orbust said, “we move to the other Wessornian religions—principally Middism and Isammedanism. These major religions share a belief in the Old Babul, you know. And there are other similarities.”
“I didn’t hear you making any points with Zatima,” Tully said. “Hey! She claims to be one of the only female imams. Does that make her an imama?”
“I doubt if it would come out with that meaning in her tongue,” Orbust said, not smiling. He thought for a moment, added, “I let my anger override good sense when I spoke to her, when I lunged for the Snapcard. I could have handled it better. I guess we should leave Zatima for last.”
“Okay,” Smith said. “We’ll look for stragglers to pick off first, the ones who are uncertain or faltering in their beliefs, not so set as the others.”
“Let’s decide what to do about that ParKekh,” Tully said, flicking the toothpick away. “He’s a problem.”
“I listened to a book-tape in my cabin,” Smith said. “ParKekhism is a bastardized remnant of Zillasterism, a religion that became known as Parloo and then through a freak of politics combined forces with Kekh fanaticism. Hence ‘ParKekh.’ Zillaster was a prophet who founded a monotheistic religion long before Krassianism, Middism or Isammedanism. They worshipped fire, said it symbolized divine purity.”
“ParKekhism is monotheistic too?” Tully asked.
Smith nodded.
“If Orbust hadn’t alienated the guy,” Tully said, “we could have worked him on the one-God angle, suggesting similarities with Krassianism.”
“No use crying about that,” Smith said. He paused, added: “I hear the guy keeps an eternal flame going. It’s from one of their fire temples.”
“An open fire on this ship?” Tully asked, astounded.
“Uh-huh,” Smith said.
“That’s idiotic,” Tully said.
“No more than all the candles these pilgrims have,” Tully said.
“Appy said the candles are I.L.-approved,” Orbust remembered. “They must have an internal shutdown system, and I assume the eternal flame has one too.”
“What if you’re wrong?” Tully asked. “The whole ship could burn up.”
“I hear the flame is in one of the sublevel shrines,” Smith said. “And who knows if they have Insurance Laboratories where Singh came from.”
Orbust pursed his lips thoughtfully, listened to the others.
Smith shrugged. “The guy is in deep shit if that fire goes out; It’s his Achilles heel. Nail the fire and you nail the guy. He’d probably kill himself afterward.”
“I say we move on the flame and snuff it,” Tully said. “The bastard is probably unconvertible anyway.”
“I don’t know if we should. . . .” Orbust said. His voice trailed off uncertainly.
“After it’s snuffed,” Tully said, “someone can suggest to him that it’s God’s message, that the eternal flame stuff isn’t right belief, or God wouldn’t have let it go out.”
“I don’t wanna be the one to tell him that,” Orbust said, rubbing one of his shoulders where it hurt.
“He’s not so tough,” Tully said. “If I could get close to him and use a maneuver they taught me in the army . . . anyway, I’ll do a little reconnaissance on the flame. We should check it out.”
Smith agreed, but admonished: “Don’t get caught.”
“I’m like a cat,” Tully said. His eyes were bright and mysterious, betraying to Orbust that he was not to be trusted entirely.
“Maybe there’s more shit like that we can do to others too,” Smith said, “making them think that God has turned against them.”
“Whatever it takes, right?” Tully said. “Wasn’t that what we agreed when we forced McMurtrey out of his house? This is war, right? A war with the other religions!”
“Maybe this is going too far,” Orbust said. “I don’t know . . . ”
“Listen, Johnny,” Smith said, “how is snuffing that ParKekh’s flame any different from you using your Snapcard on people?”
“The guy could kill himself that’s the difference. A big difference.”
“We’ll plan it so he can’t kill himself, then,” Smith said. “We steal his weapon, get him under control before the flame is hit.”
“How are we gonna do that?” Orbust asked.
“It’ll take a little thought, that’s all,” Smith said.
“Aw, why bother?” Tully said. “Like I said, this is war. No prisoners, you know? I’ll stick that ParKekh’s head in his own flame!” He snapped his notebook shut, capped the pen.
“No you won’t,” Orbust said. He stared Tully down, added, “Like Smith said, we plan the whole thing out so no one gets hurt.”
“You talk big,” Tully sneered, “and you don’t even have your gun anymore. Any time, fella. Just you and me!”
Tully slammed to his feet. Clutching his pen and notebook, he stormed from the room.
It was shortly after breakfast, and McMurtrey’s belly wasn’t full. The food from the automatic butler in his cabin hadn’t been prepared exactly as he’d ordered it. It hadn’t been anywhere close, except he had received breakfast items. (Ordered: Two Unglish breakfasts; Received: Two bowls of synthetic banana slices in soggy wheat cereal.)
Still, he felt good, and as he tramped along Level 6 to stretch his legs he perked up, felt a bounce in his steps.
McMurtrey couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt so good.
He thought about Jin, who was one level up and seated in meditation. McMurtrey had spoken to him while walking past, saying: “I saw you take the chemstrip.” There had been no response.
McMurtrey rubbed his chin at this recollection.
Shalom ben Yakkai emerged from an adjacent corridor, came around the partition, approaching. He was hatless and his hair was crew-short, with no sidelocks. His long black coat was gone, replaced by a heavy, long-sleeved black shirt and heavy black trousers. He still had his beard.
“Mr. Shalom ben Yakkai?” McMurtrey asked, as they met.
Yakkai nodded, smiled pleasantly. “Two frauds exposed, eh?” he said. “You voluntarily, and me by the Middist Secret Police. Just kidding. The rabbi’s a nice enough fellow, actually. He let me keep my beard.”
“He couldn’t really force you to change anything, could he?”
“No, but he’s an old fart and he was pretty upset. I didn’t want him to have a heart attack. I should have known better anyway. My outfit wasn’t in the best of taste, I guess.”
“How did you get aboard Shusher?”
“No formal invitation, but one day I felt an urge to come here. Like most of the others.”
“You think maybe atheism is the way to God?”
“What an oxymoron. Don’t make me laugh. There isn’t any God. I’m not sure yet what the gag is, but it doesn’t have anything to do with anyone’s mythical God.”
