As he gathered his books he brushed one more time by Cal’s ear. “See you outside,” he breathed, and exited the lecture hall onto the access platform.
The Training Center, like every other main building in the Homeland, was simply a macro version of the TEPs. Their surface was one of the technical miracles of the Homeland. It was composed of millions of tiny cells which communicated the sun's heat inwards. The top layer received radiated heat the moment the sun came up. Because that source was constant they were able to continually filter warmth to the cells below. The result was to build up a thermal blanket that only little by little lost its warmth overnight. Covered in their fine-sponge bio-plastic the Centers rose like huge gray-white mushrooms over the land. Against the background of the bleached tundra they were easily lost to sight and when the sun was up the entire scene could merge into a dazzling whiteness that hurt the eyes. Any of the few windows were tinted to keep out the glare, but very few people looked out of them anyway. It was only the interior that had interest. The Training Center structure was of great vertical cliffs, of blocks, halls, rooms, and cubicles, hanging together at multiple levels like a chaotic honeycomb. The levels and spaces were connected by a cat’s cradle of pulsing transport tubes and moving walkways. Most of the young people looked forward to hanging out there. It was the closest thing to life they knew.
Poll stood on the access deck to the lecture theater with the security guards eying him contemptuously through the doors. Across the deck, the wall joined a transport tube. Every fifteen seconds in a steady mechanical breath the wall swept open onto the interior of a Communications Vehicle. After five seconds more, if no one was passing through, it swept shut and the Bubble pinged away. Poll gazed dully at the convulsing wall, allowing its hypnotic action to block out his thoughts and feelings. He was tall and angular, with tousled unkempt hair. His long limbs were undisciplined, always somehow in advance of their own movement. Yet the intelligence of his eyes held you and their dark fire convinced you of the power of his personality. Poll was respected by the other students but also feared. They kept their distance from him as someone who meant trouble for himself and anyone seen to be close to him. He was, therefore, almost always alone and the fact that he regularly sat behind Cal and volunteered his opinions into her ear singled her out too. She had tried to ignore him, but now without having decided anything she was being drawn into his misfit world.
The doors of the lecture hall burst open and the students streamed out, lining up to catch the Bubbles to the next class. Poll looked out for Cal and blocked her way as she came through the doors.
“Did you hear what I said to you? What do you think? What do you think about the storms?”
Cal tried to sidestep. “Get away from me! When did I ask you to sit next to me? Or talk to me? You’re crazy!”
“Listen,” Poll spoke through clenched teeth. “I know there’s something going on with you. You look like you don’t pay attention but your grades are the best, and I’ve seen you counting the indicators. I’m certain you’ll understand the figures if you let me show them to you.”
Students standing in line for the Bubbles were now taking an interest in their conversation. Hardly ever did anyone show that kind of intensity, and a couple of them glanced over expectantly at security who, at this point, were looking the wrong way. Cal knew Poll would be grabbed at once if they saw him harassing her.
“OK, OK I’ll talk with you. Just back off or you’ll be in the lock-up.”
Poll turned around at once trying to control his breathing. The crowd looked disappointed. He spoke sidelong “I’ll meet you in Dining. Well set up a time there.”
He walked abruptly forward, past the first person in line, and stepped into the next Bubble. The door closed and he was gone, with muffled shouts of protest trailing behind. Cal shrugged disinterestedly at some of the students who turned to her, then buried her nose in a book.
3. HOLO-CAST
At Worship Center Five Benn was putting the final touches to the Holo-cast for the twelve o’clock faith and glory service. When he first arrived he spent an hour in prayer and meditation, then accessed the personalized WIA link. People sent him messages about their relationships. About spouses, about siblings, about the various difficulties they endured living and working together in the confined and regulated conditions of the Homeland. His job was to offer each one consolation and encouragement, directing them to let go of anger and frustration, looking always toward the bliss of heaven to come. There were few pleasures to be had in the TEP world. Whatever discretionary income people held was spent at the workplace stores selling a few luxury foods, or perhaps on the slight variations in fashion in the standard-issue thermal suits. Sport was the one major relaxation activity. Here in Sector Three the preferred sport was swimming. Everyone enjoyed the hours they spent in the warmly heated swimming pools where they could finally forget the unrelenting battle with the cold. Best of all were the competitions, between different zones of the Sector, and even sometimes with other Sectors.
These were the occasions that came closest to evoking large-scale passions. There was a kind of aura attached to the biggest sports stars, some of whom were reported to have retired into lives of exceptional privilege. No one was entirely sure of details but all of the Sectors could remember striking athletes who had suddenly reached a pinnacle of status and disappeared. They were only seen afterward in personal message transmissions saying how happy they were, thanking their fans, and encouraging young people to aspire to the same success. Rumors ran wild, sometimes advancing to the level of a heresy which Worship Leaders like Benn had to deal with. These rumors claimed that the greatest sports stars were taken directly by immortal beings to live in heaven without first having to die. The heresy had expanded to include not only sports stars but also particularly beautiful or gifted individuals. It was because he had more than once found himself having to refute these ridiculous beliefs that Benn had one time mentioned them at home. His daughter, Sam, immediately became quite fascinated with the idea. He regretted having said anything; indeed, only this morning she had repeated the same thing. It was a disgrace for the daughter of a Worship Leader to think like this. He would have a serious talk with her as soon as possible. He should play some of the video files of the stars saying how they had moved to a special Sector in celebration of their success and now wanted simply to be left alone. That should settle the matter. He would add that continuing in the faithful pathway of the Homeland brought everyone in due time to true immortality.
Right now Benn was doing the thing he liked most, the part of his job which was the heart and soul of being a Worship Leader. Before him was a long console with ranks of displays, dials, ports and controls. Using computerized programs, controlling sound, hydraulics, air currents, screens and holograms, the bank of switches allowed the Worship Leader to produce a global spiritual environment. He was able to bathe the crowd of congregants in a stream of strong sensations. It was called a Holo-cast, a sacred performance, and it had the power to lift people up in another world. The worshipers were strapped into seating which could be raised and maneuvered about. They floated gently through space, while angels’ wingtips brushed them, clouds bathed them and rays of sunshine struck golden shafts upon them. Strings and birdsong serenaded their ears while a voice of velvet read from sacred scriptures, declaring divine truth and the rewards of a faithful life.
Every Holo-cast was custom-made by the Worship Leader. Mountains, seas, stars and skies, blossom in hues of violet and blue, saffron and green, all could be summoned up and shaken out over the worshipers. Often the sweet smell of perfume, jasmine or myrrh, was spread delicately on the air. At the high point of the service the Worship Leader would rise above the people on a crystal pillar and speak holy words of comfort and hope. This was Benn’s finest moment, and as he locked in the midday performance he rehearsed the words he would speak.
“How blessed are we, my friends, to be able to call divine illumination int
o our minds and souls.”
In his imagination he made an expansive gesture, drawing down virtual threads of power attached to his fingers, and at the same time hologram twists of golden light would fall among the worshipers.
“Let us surrender now in faith to visions of glory!” he would say, and all the people would answer fervently “Amen!”
What beauty and wonder there was in his work, and how utterly in contrast to the catastrophe of former times. Most of the relatively small area on earth useful for human use had been wiped out either by massive unpredictable storms or drastic shifts in temperature. No one had known what to do. It was Doomsday, with mass panic, millions starving and numerous additionally destructive wars for control of ever-shrinking resources. How much in contrast then, was the God-given rescue of the Homeland. Its amazing order and security, and the indestructible glory of its Holo-casts. It was his privileged task to remind people of the past, to comfort them in the present, and lift their spirits to a heavenly hope.
He was aroused from his reverie by the movement of people filing into the Center and taking their places. He hit the intro music and gently swelling chords flooded through the stadium while white clouds formed in the high spaces under its roof. Today was an average weekday, so the presentation would be fairly basic: some laughing children running through apple orchards and of course the final fire of divine illumination. Nothing too elaborate. The bigger effects were saved for every tenth day which represented the end of the Homeland week and the standard holy day of the Homelanders. On the 99th day a truly awe-inspiring performance was given. This was the Feast of Storm and Fire, an eagerly anticipated holy day and something very few people would want to miss. The day after, the 100th day, was a day of complete rest and enjoyment. The two days together produced a very special occasion, the conclusion of the Homeland’s regular time cycle and its greatest feast. Today the Sector was only two days away from the double holiday.
The program was streaming holograms of sun-dappled children racing among the stadium seating, covering the worshipers with laughing faces and healthy warm limbs, while blossom shook from the trees and fell among them. The audio played a guitar arpeggio and the people visibly relaxed and smiled to themselves and to each other. As Benn rose above the scattered worshipers on his crystal pulpit in his robes of cream and vermillion, he was filled with powerful religious emotion.
“O my friends, let us be mindful of the 99th day festival which is approaching and its special liturgy. We will experience it once more, the awe and the hope of God’s salvation. Let us make ready with attentive hearts for this most important day, when everyone must see the divine power to destroy and create, to punish our sins and yet bring us peace.”
“So, now, let us give up all desire for false earthly pleasures and let our thoughts and yearning surrender to the fire of illumination. Thus we will receive the blessing of true and perfect light.”
At this last formula an acolyte at the console threw a switch. Suddenly all the heavenly clouds resolved into intense darkness relieved only by a single nuclear fire at the far end of the arena, where the seating gave way to an empty ceremonial setting. There was a collective sigh and “Amen.” Then from all points shot trembling rivers of flame flowing powerfully to the single blaze. The sound system generated a thunderous note accompanied by a single piccolo. The tones merged and the bass faded until little by little only the sweet high sound was heard. Just as suddenly the rivers of flame were swallowed in the central fire which blazed up, bathing everyone in a luminous glow and then extinguished, while the piccolo phrase dipped and died in soft surrender. The house lights came up while the seating gently spun back to the floor. The worshipers clicked themselves free and returned quietly to work.
Benn made his way back to his office and took off his robes. He handed them to an assistant to replace in the armoire which contained hundreds of other splendid tunics, veils and chasubles for every occasion. He sat down at his computer and hit the keys, typing “Day of Storm and Fire.” A long list of files and folders came up. So many that he had never investigated them all. “Exodus of the Homelanders,” “Dividing the Waters: The Weather Shield Miracle,” “Fire at the Heart of the Ice”: he was familiar with these and had used them all before. Scattered randomly among them were others with less exciting names like “Homeland Climatics” and “Geotherm Theory,” and some simply with numbers and letters. It was as if science was mixed in with religion, and, really, this made sense to him—hadn’t God given the science that created the Homeland? But really Benn never gave it much thought and this time was no exception. Preparing for the solemn feast in two days he went straight to “Exodus of the Homelanders.”
4. FRIEND
“The historic isobar of the Homeland is not possible with the physics they give us! Surely you understand that?”
Poll was staring maniacally at Cal. She had never really talked with him before and if she’d imagined the scene at any other time she knew she would have burst out laughing, or simply turned away. But now as she looked at him she could see an underlying honesty. It caught her and stopped her from shutting him down.
“Relax!” she said. “You have to lighten up. You know they’re just itching to expel you. If you go round saying these insane things you’ll be doing Refrigeration Maintenance, you know, with frostbite and a short life! Your name's Poll, isn't it?”
Cal knew his name. The young people in the Training Center knew almost everyone's name, and there was always some gossip about Poll. She asked him the question simply to get him off his single topic of conversation. Poll looked at her perplexed.
“I’m Poll Sidak, and you’re Cal Anders.”
Cal shook her head, “You’re something, Poll. You might know a lot of stuff, but it’s not just what you know…you know!”
Poll was unfazed. “Really, there’s a lot that I don’t know and…I need your help....”
Cal sighed and looked around her. They were in the Center Dining Area. Thousands of students attended classes at the Training Center and it seemed like most of them were now filing past the stainless steel serving counters at the lunch hour, piling their plates with hydroponic vegetables and synthetic meat. They all wore the same therm-suits but had made some attempt at individualism, with patches or trim, or adjustments for a better fit. Still, everyone was following the Homeland's pathway, staying alive in the relentless regulated existence dictated by their arctic world. Poll was someone looking for another pathway. He was a freak and he was dangerous. Yet now something inside her connected to him and was glad to do so. She looked back at him, this time with a hint of new resolve.
“OK,” she said. “I'm up for it. Tell me what you have to tell me.”
Poll visibly quivered. He looked as though he were about to start yelling, but he checked himself, and bent his head down to a level with Cal's.
“Basically there isn’t enough energy in the reactors to keep out a storm system engulfing the rest of the world.” He looked round quickly. “I can’t show you the figures right now. I’ll slip them to you at the next lecture. You know how it works, don’t you, I mean the Global Weather Shield?”
“Well, yes...”
Poll didn’t wait for a reply. “It’s produced by massive ground and air refrigeration. We’re all taught that. They teach us the facts but not the truth—apart from rudimentary equations on energy needed to keep the refrigeration powered up. But even with those figures I’ve been able to prove there isn’t enough air pressure to restrain the hurricane winds they described from before the shield was built. There has to be something more going on, something more complex. What do you think it could it be?”
The question was again rhetorical, for as Cal began to say she had no idea he went straight on without drawing breath.
“And here, here’s another one. Do we have any concept of the storm forces created in the rest of the world by the Weather Shield itself? To produce refrigeration there has to be heat exchange. But where does all
that heat go? Unless it went somewhere over time it would itself produce massive fronts of low pressure, certainly enough to blow away our precious pile of cold air.”
Poll’s questions poured out. Cal hardly understood them but suddenly it became intensely exciting just hearing him ask them, sensing they were real, that he was on to something, and she was part of it. Students were taught the principles of nuclear power and refrigeration and what centralized maintenance was required. They were told the nuclear fuel cycle was fully automatic and it would provide an endless generating capability. All that was necessary was to manage its output to maintain the massive refrigeration of the Homeland. It was calm inside its ring, but at the borders everything turned to chaos. For the rest there was religion. God had provided the Global Weather Shield for the remnants of humanity, to convince them of his care and lead them on the pathway to heaven. Once this was explained there were no more questions to ask.
In fact Cal had always had a problem with this. She had never fully admitted it to herself, but something was always there nagging at the back of her mind. If God loved everyone and intended to bring them all to a good place why should he put them in such a bad place to begin with? Why not bring them to the good place from the get-go? She suspected that the reason why she counted display pulses was to blot out these terrible questions from her mind. Now Poll was asking his own terrible questions, and for the first time she felt, yes, that really was OK. It was sudden and startling but it was almost as if she had been waiting for it to happen. She wasn’t sure about any of the things he was saying, but for the first time she felt truly alive.
Pascale's Wager: Homelands of Heaven Page 2
