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Short Story: THE ENGULFED CATHEDRAL
by CARL FREDERICK
Illustration by Broeck Steadman
* * * *
New things take getting used to, no matter which side you're coming from.
Issuant from the warm, clear waters of the Eastern Mediterranean, six meters of white stone breached the surface—the pinnacle of a cathedral's spire. Scattered in a roughly circular array around that gothic steeple lay a few score of boats: pleasure craft, houseboats, and a light military vessel—an aged La Fayette class frigate.
The cathedral, gradually engulfed as the Earth warmed and the waters rose, had survived its baptism intact—except for the north transept, the left arm of the cross. The land subsided and the transept crumbled cleanly, leaving a great open archway to the sea. Now, through that arch swam Doctors Paul and Ingrid Ryan: two delegates to the Thirtieth International Conference on Genetics and the Future of Mankind being held in a beachfront hotel.
As he swam through, Paul looked up over his shoulder at the ceiling of his world: the coruscating plane of brightness interrupted by the black embossed outlines of the boats. Near some of the hulls, he saw starbursts—the silent splashes of divers descending to attend the ecumenical service. In the far distance, a pod of super-dolphins sped away from this unlikely hub of human activity. He wondered what was going on in those cetacean brains of theirs—and he felt oddly uncomfortable not being able to interpret the dolphins’ body language; reading body language had, of late, become second nature to him.
Paul directed his gaze to his wife swimming ahead. She appeared larger than life, a magnification caused by the properties of light rays refracting at the water/glass/air boundary of his diving mask. He smiled, conscious that he was a physicist among geneticists. Ingrid was the geneticist of the family and he'd been invited to the conference as a courtesy to her.
Floating at the clerestory level of the cathedral high above the altar, Ingrid looked stunning, divine; an angel with wings replaced by scuba tanks. Her blond hair undulated with the rhythm of her limbs and her body, unencumbered save for her scuba, flippers, wrist dive calculator, and a bikini, seemed a moving work of sculpture. She was beautiful—but then, in some respects, she'd been engineered to be.
She whirled around, facing him, and signed, “Beautiful!”
He started, then realizing what she referred to, signed “The cathedral: Yes. Very beautiful.”
Her body language showed humor and he could well imagine her green cat's-eyes wide with amusement behind her mask. Those eyes, with their slit-like irises and reflective tapetum lucidum retinas, were “genetic enhancements” chosen by her ailurophile mother. But due to a then-unknown gene-linking, those cat's-eyes caused her to be born deaf. And the form of deafness couldn't be ameliorated with a cochlear implant.
Here in the water though, deafness was not a handicap—quite the contrary. Unlike most divers, rendered mute by the mouthpieces between their lips, Ingrid and Paul could converse. They used Ingrid's first language and Paul's third: American Sign Language. At home on their houseboat, Paul, using cued English, relied more on Ingrid's lip-reading ability, but because they spent much time together diving he'd become fluent in ASL.
Ingrid resumed exploring the upper reaches of the cathedral's nave. Paul followed and then heard the dull dissonance of a cathedral bell sounding through water.
It disconcerted him that he couldn't tell from where the sound came. The physics was clear: Since sound travels four times faster through water than in air, the time difference for sounds reaching each ear is too small for the brain to determine direction. Knowing the science, though, just strengthened his belief that by design, people were ill adapted to the undersea realm. He bit hard on his mouthpiece, recalling Ingrid's view that by engineering, people could be made as comfortable in the sea as dolphins.
Again the bell rang, drawing his attention to its significance.
He swam ahead, catching Ingrid's attention to sign that the service was about to begin and they should probably drop down to get mooring spots above a front pew—so to be close enough for Ingrid to read the Voice-Recognition-to-ASL monitor.
Ingrid smiled with her body. “So you don't have to translate for me?” she signed. Without waiting for a response, she swam away and downward.
As he watched her descend, he wondered if her abrupt departure had a subtext. They had argued again about children. Despite her deafness caused by genetic engineering, she still wanted children engineered for beauty and intelligence. She'd said that for competitive reasons it was almost required these days. Paul scowled under his mask. He wanted no designer progeny. Tall and attractive are so common now that they're no longer attractive.
Ingrid swam in front of the cathedral's great rose window and became bathed in the reds and blues from the stained glass—from shafts of sunlight that had traversed vacuum, air, and now, water. Seeing Ingrid against the religious imagery, Paul was reminded of his parents’ warning that there'd probably be trouble if he wound up marrying an unbeliever.
Paul gave an internal shrug and, releasing more breathing bubbles than he'd needed to, he followed Ingrid down toward the buoyant tethers. The tethers floated about ten meters above the pews at a depth below the surface that was still safe for the recreational divers.
He could see clearly to the cathedral's floor. No surprise, as the salinity of the Mediterranean is higher than the Atlantic Ocean. That limits algae, which results in higher transparency. The Secchi depth, the depth to which one could see from the surface, was a lot greater than the cathedral's thirty-meter height.
He turned his attention to the front of the cathedral—to the little transparent room from which the sermon would be delivered. The air-filled room was like the congregants, also tethered, and floated about eleven meters from the bottom. Paul saw the room rock as a wizened man moved clumsily inside it—the preacher, no doubt. He was heavyset, even paunchy, but at the same time seemed much too frail to have come down to deliver a sermon. Indeed, the man looked in ill health. Paul was impressed by the preacher's obvious dedication.
He hoped the sermon would be a good one—and might even give him some arguments to convince Ingrid that designer babies weren't a good idea. Yes, he knew the nondenominational service was more public relations than anything else. Still, against the background of this sunken cathedral, a powerful message might well be delivered.
This year's conference was subtitled “Genetic Engineering in a World of Water.” The organizers had arranged the underwater service in an attempt to convince the religious lay public that geneticists weren't godless monsters. And polls indicated that what with the super-dolphin fiasco, those religionists who seemed to set the national agenda needed a lot of convincing.
Navy scientists had genetically engineered dolphins for high intelligence, neatly bypassing a hal
f million or so years of evolution. They wanted smart bombs, bombs they could talk to, smart dolphins carrying explosives. The engineered super-dolphins quickly proved they were indeed intelligent; they might or might not have been sentient, but apparently they understood the Navy's intentions—and wanted no part of it. They escaped their enclosure and fled to the open seas. Subsequently the Navy dropped the project.
That was years ago but now, just weeks before the Genetics Conference, researchers found that virtually all dolphins in the wild were super-dolphins. They, the Cro-Magnon of dolphins, had replaced the Neanderthal of dolphins. And what with the waters diminishing the land, people were growing afraid—especially of those soulless intelligences from the oceans.
Paul glided in next to Ingrid, snapped into the adjacent tether, and exchanged some signed intimacies with his wife. He glanced around at the other attendees and then at the cathedral itself. It was impressive, even under water—especially under water. The nave, a vast gothic cave with massive columns supporting soaring arches, had a look of the infinite, the blue tint from the water making the stonework appear ethereal. The stained glass in the circular rose window added diffuse reds and yellows against the blue and stood like a large but complex and subdued sun. The religious images and statues gave a feeling of an eternal lost world. To the right, the south transept faded to a mysterious darkness while to the left, the open arch exposed the crumbled remains of the north transept and the open sea beyond—distant coral reefs with schools of fish; congregations of fish, eels, mantas, and bottom-dwelling crustaceans.
Paul experienced a twinge of conscience, regretting that he'd not attended services nearly as often as his religion required. Thinking about it, he had to admit to himself that he was more of a devout researcher than a devout Christian.
Paul glanced at his dive computer. It would be a short sermon, as at this depth, a dive of more than a half hour would be pushing it.
Waiting for the service to start in the silence broken only by the breathing noises from his regulator, he examined the mechanics of the event. The transparent room had an open circular hole in the floor, the only method of entrance. The minister had to have come in that way. Visualizing that, Paul was more impressed than ever with the guy. The man must be a true believer.
There was a pulpit in the room, a lectern really, and next to it, a table. On the table were the Voice Recognition, ASL translation monitor, and also a little box, the function of which Paul couldn't discern.
Outside the room, on the left and right sides, were two enormous underwater speaker systems. There would certainly be no problem in hearing what the man said. Next to one of the speakers lay a large cube about a meter on a side. Paul wondered what it did. He speculated that it might be some sort of feedback system for dealing with underwater acoustics. He smiled, remembering from grad school the complexities of hydrodynamics. He pondered how the added complexity of acoustics would effect the equations.
The preacher began speaking, explaining first that he was a substitute; the scheduled minister had been taken suddenly ill. Then he launched his sermon—an old-fashioned, fire-and-brimstone condemnation of the times. Paul tried to pay attention, but his mind was occupied with acoustics equations. Only snippets of the sermon registered. “The Earth has turned against us.” Paul speculated on the hall-dynamics of an underwater auditorium. “The land is a blemish.” Or what about an auditorium filled with helium? “A temporary, earth-lined hole in the ocean.” Or maybe filled with molasses. “This is the second flood. And after it will be the second coming.” Paul continued visualizing equations, but when the preacher shouted that genetic engineering was an affront to God the creator, he jolted to attention. Looking around, he could see that the other listeners seemed stunned. This sermon was not exactly what one would expect with a congregation of geneticists.
Ingrid tapped his knee and he looked at her. “Something's wrong,” she signed.
“It certainly is,” Paul signed. “He's a jerk. The guy's father probably had him genetically engineered to be a high-school football player.”
“No,” Ingrid signed. “I mean I think I saw him mouth ‘Glory to God, my commander.'”
“What? It can't be!” Paul furrowed his brow. Something was wrong. That was the motto of the Guardians of the Light, one of the many radical Christian fundamentalist groups that had sprung up lately. He looked over at the preacher—at his build, the way he carried himself, the close-cropped gray hair. It fit the description of Ezekiel Bushman—the reclusive fundamentalist organizer who'd never allowed himself to be photographed close up. I thought he was dead. He'd been the commandant of the Guardians—that is, until he'd come down with an inoperable tumor. I wonder what he's doing here. Paul took a deep breath and released it. A long stream of bubbles rose from his breathing regulator. Probably the man wants to go out with a bang.
Paul tensed. He knew what was going on—not from physics, not from analysis, but from pure, certain instinct. And he knew the purpose of the cube.
“What's the matter?” Ingrid signed.
“I...” Paul stopped to analyze. Why would they bomb a religious observance? The answer was obvious. They've always equated nondenominational with Satanic, and they absolutely despise geneticists.
“I think,” Paul signed, “we may be in big trouble.” He hand-spelled the name Ezekiel Bushman.
Paul nodded toward the cube and Ingrid followed his gaze. “A bomb?” she signed, fear showing even through her mask.
“I think so.”
“No, it can't be.”
Paul saw more bubbles than usual rising from Ingrid's regulator. “Keep calm,” he signed.
“What can we do?”
Paul paused. “We could leave ... but...”
“I know. I couldn't live with myself if we left and the others died in a bomb blast.”
Paul nodded.
“What do we do?”
“Let me think.”
“Hurry,” Ingrid signed. “We might not have much time.”
“I know.” Paul analyzed the options. He couldn't alert the security people. And anyway, there wasn't anything they could do. At the first hint of trouble, the preacher would just set off the explosives. Paul narrowed his eyes in concentration and prayed for it to be a long sermon. He glanced at his elapsed-time dial; it wouldn't be all that long.
Paul sighed through his breathing regulator. He could think of only one possibility.
He unclipped his tether and pushed down with his flippers, sending him gliding upward. “I love you,” he signed, looking at Ingrid. “Trust me.”
With arms extended upward, he gazed heavenward, trying to look as if he were in the throes of religious ecstasy. He'd had a fair amount of experience expressing emotion using body language—it was important in ASL.
Stealing a glance at the preacher, Paul saw he was having an effect. The man still ranted, but he did so mechanically, his eyes locked on Paul.
Paul made a thumbs-up sign and then put his hands together as if in prayer—one hand open, the other balled into a fist, the salute of the Guardians of the Light. The preacher stopped in midsentence. Paul, trying to imagine how he'd behave if he'd just learned that the person watching him was the Messiah, extended his arms to the preacher, then crossed his arms over his heart and lowered his head. Then he made the praying fist sign once more. He bent his knees as if kneeling in prayer and made gestures he hoped would be interpreted as a desire to come into the booth to pay homage. From the corners of his eyes, Mark observed the security officers; they were watching him but had not made any moves to intercept him. So far, so good.
The preacher looked at first confused, then proud.
Paul, still with his feet bent as if he were on his knees, stroked softly toward the booth. He knew that to the geneticists, he must look ridiculous—like a sea horse. In front of the transparent booth, Paul bowed his head, made the praying fist sign, and then pointed to the circular entry hole and looked imploringly up at the preacher.
The man stared at him for a few seconds, and then nodded.
Paul swam to the entry and climbed up into the booth. He got to his feet, let his mouthpiece fall away, and stripped off his mask. He took a few breaths; it was a pleasure breathing through his nose again. Then, uncertain what exactly to do next, he again made the praying fist sign.
“Tell me, son,” said the preacher, “what's a Guardian doing here among these infidels?”
Paul glanced heavenward, asked forgiveness ahead of the act, and double forgiveness if indeed he'd made a mistake—and then hauled off and slugged the preacher.
The man dropped like a brick to the floor.
Looking out the transparent front wall, Paul saw two security officers swimming like sharks toward the booth. Ingrid followed close behind them. Paul grabbed the microphone. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” he said, “I'm sorry about the violence, but I've reason to believe...” He grimaced, for actually, he had no real reason at all.
Looking away at the table, he saw, close up, the little box next to the ASL monitor. It had a button and a key. It could well be a detonation device. Perhaps, he did have reason to believe.
Paul explained as best he could to the assembly, and suggested everyone return to the surface, return to land, for an early lunch before the afternoon sessions. When he'd finished, he turned to the security officer who'd just clambered in from the entry hole. Ingrid climbed in just behind him.
The security officer whipped off his mask and Paul saw that the man's face was not skin, but short fur—a not particularly uncommon genetic modification. His parents must have liked dogs. In fact, the man's appearance was not at all unattractive.
Trying not to smile at the thought, “police dog,” Paul pointed to the box.
“Yeah, it is a detonator, all right,” said the security officer, examining the object without touching it.
Paul, standing behind, glanced at Ingrid and signed, “You will, I hope, explain to your colleagues, that your husband is not some sort of Christian fundamentalist?”
Analog SFF, January-February 2008 Page 22
