Faulty Prophet

by Karl Beecher

  The first time she'd seen it, Tyresa had thought the message was a fake, or else some weird cosmic force was making her hallucinate. After verifying it and viewing the video a second time, the shock had worn off, and she'd believed Colin, leading her to launch a tirade of abuse at the paused hologram1. In her rage, she had come close to turning back and going home that very moment.

  Partly she was angry at his betrayal. Mostly she was pissed because Colin referred to her as ‘Miss.' The little wise-ass knew better than that.

  Which had made her stop, calm down, and think rationally. He knew better than that, so why say it? And so, she'd watched the video a third time in the hopes there was something more to his message. If there was, she couldn't see it.

  "This makes no sense," she said, spinning in her chair to face Ade.

  "Ma'am?"

  She thought back to the argument she'd had with Colin in his room at Saint Barflet's, the one that had led to the near-riot. "We went over all this. He's not religious, he doesn't believe any of this prophecy crap. In fact, it was his playing at being prophet that got us into trouble on Procya. He should know better by now."

  "If so," said Ade, "it rather invites the question: why is Mister Douglass saying these things?"

  Tyresa nodded. It was a good question. She didn't have a good answer.

  The android went on. "If not willingly, perhaps he is being forced to say them?"

  Maybe, but something about that answer didn't fit. "I don't think so," she sighed. "There was something about the way he spoke, something your android brain wouldn't pick up on since you're not human—no offence."

  "Most assuredly none taken, ma'am."

  There was another, unsavoury alternative. "Maybe it's some form of mind control."

  "A possibility," replied Ade. "Although I understand that mind control technology is not readily found in Abrama. Of course, that does not rule out the possibility that Doctor Hanson—"

  "Mister Hanson," Tyresa insisted. "I'm not having some diploma-mill dickhead being referred to as ‘doctor' in my company."

  Ade bowed his head in acknowledgement. "…that Mister Hanson may have obtained such technology elsewhere."

  "Right. Or it could be just good, old-fashioned brainwashing."

  She shuddered. If that were the case, it could really complicate things. If Colin had been forced into genuinely believing, what would she do once she caught up with him? He wouldn't want to leave with her. If she tried to force him, then technically she'd be the kidnapper.

  She ruled the theory out, ostensibly because it sounded fanciful. But, deep down, it seemed entirely plausible. She just preferred not to believe it.

  "No. No, there's got to be another explanation, Ade."

  "Very well, ma'am," replied Ade, his emotionless tone still somehow managing to sound sceptical. "But, respectfully, what could it be?"

  Tyresa slumped further into her chair. Colin was no genuine believer, that was clear. But if he were neither forced nor brainwashed, then how was his message—sent with the cooperation of Hanson—to be explained?

  Perhaps Colin was acting. But why? Why play along? Why announce it in a…

  A thought occurred to her.

  Was Colin trying to communicate with her? Was he trying to sneak her a message inside the rest of that waffle? That might be overestimating him, but it was possible.

  She straightened up in her chair. "Play it again, Ade."

  They viewed the message once more. Tyresa watched Colin explain again how he'd undergone a revelation from the Creator and how he now realised he was a prophet. He claimed it was all thanks to Hanson's wise leadership even though the rest of Abrama were too dim to recognise the man's obvious genius and they'd soon be eating humble pie, queueing to eat out of his hand, and he would have the last laugh, etcetera, etcetera. (Tyresa suspected Hanson had written that last part.)

  Finally, as Colin's image bade Tyresa goodbye for the fourth time, she was reminded of something that had been bugging her. That weird farewell Colin had used, claiming it to be customary in the Alliance.

  "Safe travels and savour in success."

  Tyresa had never once heard that before in her life. Perhaps some oddball in the Alliance had uttered it to Colin at some point? She turned the phrase over and over in her mind until something about it became apparent. Then, she put it together with something else Colin had said.

  That wondrous thunderbolt of discovery struck her like it had so many times before on past excavations. It was like putting together two pieces of a broken artifact. Everything seemed to fit. A smile stretched across her face all by itself.

  If she was right—and it was a big if—then Colin had put her one step ahead of Hanson.

  Figuratively speaking, of course. The Turtle still trailed Hanson's ship.

  "Ade, what kind of ship is Hanson flying in?"

  The android called up Spudge's original message, which had Hanson's flight plan attached. It contained the model name and number of Hanson's vessel. Tyresa had Ade call up the technical specs.

  "Okay," she said. "How does the Rabbit's top speed compare to ours? Can we get to Solo ahead of them?"

  "We are fairly evenly matched, ma'am. Even with Mister Spudge's improvements, our maximum velocity is barely three percent greater than that of the Rabbit's. Despite gaining, we will still arrive at Solo several hours behind."

  "What if we go the rest of the way at emergency speed?"

  Ade raised an eyebrow. "Assuming that my warning against it and underlining of the risk will go unheeded…"

  "As usual."

  "…we could arrive at Solo approximately four hours ahead of them. Whether that is in one piece or as a collection of superluminal wreckage would remain to be seen." Ade looked almost weary. "I presume you are forming a plan, ma'am?"

  "Yes, I am. And it depends on us getting there first. Increase our speed to emergency maximum. Push 'er right to the edge, Ade."

  "Very good, ma'am."

  "And when you've done that, let's record a message."

  "A message, ma'am?"

  "Sure. I want to put Mister Hanson's mind at rest and tell him I'm giving up the chase."

  10

  Colin's idea had sounded so simple.

  Now that he was passing himself off as his guests' long-awaited prophet, it seemed prudent to become knowledgeable about the religion he was now representing. So, Colin had decided to read the Abraman Holy Book and familiarise himself with the ins and outs of the Abraman religion.

  It turned out to confirm Colin's theory that the simpler a plan is expressed, the more complex it turns out to be. Like someone declaring, ‘let's just redecorate the spare room today,' Colin's plan to ‘just read the Holy Book' turned out to be rather more ambitious than it sounded.

  The first problem didn't actually concern the book, but rather the persistent after-effects of surgery. At first, Doctor Gunga's pick-me-up had made Colin feel well again, sharp even. But as the hours ground by, the ill feeling returned along with the headaches, the fuzziness, the forgetfulness. It made reading a joyless activity.

  The second problem was the book's sheer size. Hanson had given Colin his own personal copy: a leather-bound, thousand-page tome that could serve as a doorstop against a medieval battering ram. It was crammed full of text so small the font size was probably expressed as a fraction rather than a whole number. The contents page revealed that the Holy Book was divided into lots of smaller books with titles like The Book of Progenity, or The Book of Subjugation, or The Book of Necessary Cataclysms.

  The main problem, though, was that this turgid, impenetrable stuff made no sense. It was more fun reading the terms and conditions of Microsoft Windows in full—and Colin was the kind of masochistic bore who insisted on doing just that. By now, he'd established a pattern to his reading. He'd struggle through the first few verses of a book before giving up and trying his luck with the next one instead. He was now on the seventh book, The Book of Depredation. As far as he could tel
l, it concerned an ancient prince who was personally charged by the Creator with slaughtering several neighbouring tribes on account of their unwillingness to accept that temple entrances should face north rather than south. Colin couldn't quite grasp the moral of the story.

  He finally gave in to his impatience and slammed the book shut, causing a thud so loud to echo around his room and make himself jump. He cursed silently. He'd pictured himself being able to toss off a parable here and drop a pithy quote there. But it was no good. There was no way he'd learned enough to bluff his way through.

  The panic began to rise. The palms of his jittering hands turned wet. He had cobbled together a plan for dealing with Hanson and Gunga, but it depended on them believing whatever he said. He had to be credible in their eyes. If he tried to show off his ‘knowledge' now, he'd look about as credible as the kid on exam day who'd done zero revision. And attended none of the lessons. And had accidentally turned up at the wrong school.

  But then a thought occurred to him. Maybe he didn't need to be that good to fool Hanson and Gunga. Those two had been nothing but fervently enthusiastic throughout the whole journey. It seemed nothing could disturb their faith. Colin's claim to have undergone a revelation—which, on reflection, had been a rather flaccid and drippy performance—had been met unquestioningly. Even his request for a copy of the Holy Book hadn't aroused suspicion. Colin had worried it would have come across like a surgeon asking for a medical textbook during an operation, but Hanson had handed it over with nothing but profuse kindness.

  Could it be that Hanson and Gunga were so convinced and so determined to believe in Colin that nothing would persuade them otherwise? Apparently, they'd been waiting years for their prophet's arrival. Perhaps the wait had turned them desperate. Just maybe, the best thing would actually be for Colin to keep his mouth shut as much as possible and leave his hosts to convince themselves.

  The ship's intercom beeped, and Hanson's voice came through.

  "Reverence," came his voice, using the new title he and Gunga had taken to addressing Colin with. "Glorious news. We're approaching Earth. Please do us the kindness of coming to the bridge."

  Earth. Colin hadn't been there in weeks, not since his revival. Even then, he'd barely set eyes on it. All he remembered was the desolate, yellow fog that apparently covered the whole, dead surface. He was almost hesitant to go and see it now.

  He stood. The headache flared up, and he was overcome with light-headedness. He steadied himself against the wall and rubbed his head until his vision returned to normal.

  Must have got up too quickly, he thought.

  Once in the corridor, he was surprised to find he couldn't remember which way to go. It stretched off left and right, but both directions felt totally unfamiliar. Figuring he had a fifty-fifty chance, he picked a direction and set off down the corridor.

  Eventually, he came to spot where two large, doorways faced each other across the corridor. This felt vaguely familiar. He turned towards the door to his right. As he reached out his hand towards the control panel, he heard the other door slide open then felt a hand grasp his shoulder.

  "Not that way!"

  Colin turned.

  "That's the airlock, Reverence," said a smiling Hanson. "We wouldn't want you leaving too suddenly, would we?"

  Hanson led him through the opposite doorway onto the bridge. In keeping with the rest of the ship, it was luxurious, spacious, and well-furnished. Of course, it was crammed with banks of controls like on any other starship, but the panels had walnut framing and the buttons a marble finish. All-in-all the finest ship that believers' donations could buy.

  Beside one control desk stood Arfang, still and ominously silent as ever. Opposite him, Gunga paced the room nervously.

  "Visual range yet, Arfang?" asked Hanson.

  The huge man nodded.

  "Excellent. Then please reveal all."

  Arfang grunted, lifted his tree trunk arm and poked a button. On the largest screen appeared the image of a planet hanging in space, its surface covered from pole to pole in thick, swirling, mustard-coloured clouds.

  "Is that Earth?" asked Colin.

  "Yes," said Hanson, and put his hand on Colin's shoulder. "Sad to see isn't it? Ruined by man's sinfulness."

  It was the first time Colin had actually looked at Earth from afar, not having had a chance during his rescue. Somehow, knowing about Earth's demise from a distance was a whole different experience than seeing it with his own eyes. It was like the difference between thinking about a friend's death and then seeing their body lying in the coffin. Colin wiped away a lone tear that had somehow escaped.

  Hanson gave him little time to mourn. His grip drove into Colin's shoulder as he turned him away from the screen. The man's stare, respectful on the surface, seemed to conceal a deep, furious obsession.

  "Earth may be wiped clean," said Hanson. "But out of this disaster can come something glorious. We can restore man's link to the Creator (Grant Unto Him Glory). It all rests on you." He clasped his hands to the sides of Colin's head, as though he were trying to read the answer through his skull. "Do you have the answer to the riddle?"

  Colin looked earnestly at Hanson. This was a big moment. Not because of anything to do with religion, but because he had to sell Hanson a critical lie.

  His original message to Tyresa had contained the seeds of a plan, missable by Hanson but, hopefully, clear enough to her. In her reply, she'd announced she was giving up the chase and angrily denounced Colin as a traitor. Hanson had taken particular delight in playing back her final words over and over. "Tell that traitor from me," she had hissed in the recording, "he can go and crawl back into the fucking hole I found him in!" It suggested she had understood.

  It was far from certain, but Colin hoped he was right. Somehow, he and Tyresa had cooked up a plan together across light-years of empty space using nothing but secret codes and innuendoes. The next step required directing Hanson towards a very specific place.

  Here goes, thought Colin, let's see if he buys it.

  "Yes, I know it," he said.

  Hanson gasped as though someone had dropped an ice cube down his back. He grinned wide and repeated the riddle. "Where the home of the gods becomes the homophone of the gods. Where is it?"

  "Mount Olympus," answered Colin.

  He was betting that nobody in the galaxy knew of Mount Olympus anymore. Still, he braced himself for the reaction.

  Hanson mouthed the name silently. "A beautiful name. But please explain the answer."

  "More correctly," Colin ‘explained', "it's the second Mount Olympus. There were two on Earth, you see. The home of the gods was on the more famous of the two. It's where the Greek gods lived."

  Hanson raised an eyebrow. "You mean pagan gods?" he choked.

  Colin swallowed and ploughed on. "Yes, but they're only stories. Anyway, that's not what the riddle is referring to."

  "Oh, good," said Hanson, placated. "I'd hate to think false gods had anything to do it."

  "The other Mount Olympus, in other words, the homophone, was in a different place entirely," said Colin, pleased with how convincing he sounded.

  Hanson became giddy. "Where? Show us," he ordered, leading Colin over to one of the consoles near where Gunga stood. "Show us where this mountain was."

  Colin stepped towards the console. Suddenly, the light-headedness overcame him once more. His heart began pounding in his ears, and his legs buckled.

  "Reverence!" exclaimed Hanson, catching Colin and easing him into a chair beside the console. "Let me help you."

  Gunga lunged forward. "Are you all right? Do you need—"

  "He's fine, Doctor." Hanson gently pushed Gunga aside. "Let him continue with his work. It is, after all, so near completion."

  Colin rubbed his eyes, trying to ignore the sickly feeling. The most important part of his plan was coming up. He looked at one of the screens in front of him. A rectangular image showed nothing but a swirl of yellow clouds.

  "Is t
hat the planet?" he asked. "All I see is clouds. I can't see the surface."

  "Easily remedied with a radio relief scan," said Hanson. He leaned forward and poked a few buttons.

  The image that replaced the old one took a few seconds to render, but Colin recognised it long before the process completed. It was the raised outlines of the continents. He saw North and South America to the left, Europe and Africa in the middle and the enormous body of Asia to the right. It looked like a world atlas painted yellow.

  Colin almost had to wipe away another tear. It was beyond any scintilla of doubt now. This was Earth. Its oceans may have boiled away, its atmosphere corrupted, and its life long since become extinct, but its face hadn't been wiped away quite yet.

  Hanson pressed on, hovering at Colin's ear. "Better?" he whispered. "Now you can show us."

  Colin asked Hanson to zoom in on the image until only Europe filled the screen. His beloved England sat at the top-left and, to the bottom-right, was Greece. Colin zoomed down further onto the relevant portion. He knew what he was looking for: a tall, rocky outcrop in an otherwise flat plain. Soon enough, he found it.

  He turned to Hanson. "Do you have the coordinates?"

  Hanson produced, of all things, a folded piece of thick, yellowed paper from his pocket. He unfolded it and placed it on the console. On it was written a series of coordinates in beautiful handwriting. Colin imagined this piece of paper having been lovingly cared for by its owner over many years.

  He found the rocky outcrop on the screen. However, instead of following the coordinates in the right order, he worked through them backwards in his mind, starting at the rocky outcrop and following the trail from end to start. By the time he'd finished, he'd traced a reverse-path from the outcrop to another area where, coincidentally, there appeared to be a patch of boulders.

  "There," said Colin, pointing at the boulders. "That's where Mount Olympus is. Or, rather, was. This atmosphere has clearly eaten it away."

  Hanson and Gunga looked closer.

  "Amazing," breathed Hanson. "What was once a mountain is now just a heap of rocks. Verily, the Creator (Grant Unto Him Glory) shall crush mountains and boil seas. 1 It's as Scripture foretold."