Blasphemy

by Douglas Preston

  Hazelius turned toward the Visualizer. He spoke calmly and quietly. “My wife, Astrid, was pregnant when she died. We had just found out. Nobody else knew of her pregnancy. Nobody . Here is your test: tell me the name we chose for our child.”

  Another silence, filled only by the ethereal singing of the detectors. The screen remained blank. The seconds crawled by.

  Hazelius snorted. “Well, that settles it. If anyone had any doubts.”

  And then, as if from a great distance, a name swam into focus on the screen.

  Albert Leibniz Gund Hazelius, if it was a boy.

  Hazelius remained still, his face expressionless. Everyone stared at him, awaiting a denial that did not come.

  “And if it was a girl?” Edelstein cried, stepping toward the screen. “What if it was a girl? What would the name have been?”

  Rosalind Curie Gund Hazelius.

  Ford stared in utter astonishment as Hazelius folded to the floor, as slowly and gently as if he had fallen asleep.

  44

  BY THE TIME STANTON LOCKWOOD REACHED the Oval Office for the emergency meeting, the president was pacing the center of the room like a caged lion. Roger Morton, his chief of staff, and the ubiquitous campaign chief Gordon Galdone were standing on either side of his pacing ground, like referees. His ever-silent secretary, Jean, clutched her steno book primly. Lockwood was surprised to see the president’s National Security Advisor in video conference, split-screened on a flat panel display with Jack Strand, the Director of the FBI.

  “Stanton.” The president came over and grasped his hand. “Glad you could get here at such short notice.”

  “Of course, Mr. President.”

  “Have a seat.”

  Lockwood sat while the president continued to stand. “Stan, I called this little meeting because we’ve got some shit going on down there in Arizona with the Isabella project that Jack’s just brought to my attention. Around eight o’clock Mountain Daylight Time all communications to and from Isabella were cut off. From all of Red Mesa, even. The DOE Offsite Project Manager tried to raise them on the secure lines, by open cell lines, even by regular land-lines. No luck. Isabella is running at full power and it seems the team is below, in the Bunker, totally cut off. The situation was vetted up the ladder and just came to the attention of Director Strand—who informed me.”

  Lockwood nodded. This was very strange. There were backup systems to the backup systems. It shouldn’t happen. Couldn’t happen.

  “Look, it’s probably some glitch,” said the president, “power failure maybe. I don’t want to make a big deal out of it—not at this sensitive time.”

  “Sensitive time,” Lockwood knew, was the president’s euphemism for the upcoming election.

  The president paced. “And that’s not the only problem.” He turned to his secretary. “Jean? Roll it.”

  A screen dropped from the ceiling. Static hissed; then the image of Reverend Don T. Spates filled the screen at his cherrywood roundtable, speaking to an eminence grise. His voice rolled from the sound system like thunder. The segment had been edited down to eight minutes of the high points of the show—sound bullets. When the tape ended, the president stopped pacing and faced Lockwood. “That’s the second problem.”

  Lockwood took a deep breath. “Mr. President, I wouldn’t be too concerned. This is crazy stuff. Only the fringe is going to buy this.”

  The president turned to his chief of staff. “Roger? Tell him.”

  Morton’s spatulate fingers coolly adjusted his tie, his gray eyes on Lockwood. “Before Roundtable America had even ended, the White House had received almost one hundred thousand e-mails. We hit two hundred thousand a half hour ago. I don’t have the latest tally, because the servers crashed.”

  Lockwood felt a thrill of horror.

  “In all my years in politics,” said the president, “I’ve never seen anything like it. And wouldn’t you know it, right at this very moment the goddamn Isabella project goes silent!”

  Lockwood glanced at Galdone, but as usual the lugubrious campaign chief was reserving counsel.

  “Could you send someone out there,” Lockwood asked, “to check it out?”

  The FBI Director spoke. “We’re considering it. Perhaps a small team... in case there’s a... situation out there.”

  “A situation?”

  “It’s not beyond the bounds of possibility that we may be dealing with terrorists or some kind of internal mutiny. A very remote possibility. But we do have to consider it.”

  Lockwood felt a spiraling sense of unreality.

  “So, Stanton,” said the president, clasping his hands behind his back. “You’re in charge of Isabella. What the hell’s going on?”

  Lockwood cleared his throat. “All I can say is, this is extremely unusual. It’s way outside the protocols. I can’t begin to understand it, unless...”

  “Unless what?” the president asked.

  “The scientists deliberately shut down the communications system.”

  “How can we find that out?”

  Lockwood thought for a moment. “There’s a guy named Bernard Wolf up at Los Alamos. He was the right-hand man to the chief engineer, Ken Dolby, who designed Isabella. He knows the whole layout, the systems, the computers, how it all works together. And he’ll have a full set of blueprints.”

  The president turned to his chief of staff. “Get him up and ready to roll.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.” Morton sent his assistant scurrying from the room on the task. Morton walked to the window and turned. His face was red, and the veins in his neck pulsed faintly. He looked directly at Lockwood. “For weeks, Stan, I’ve been repeatedly expressing to you my concern about the lack of progress with the Isabella project. What the hell have you been doing?”

  Lockwood was stunned by his tone. Nobody had talked to him that way in years. He kept his voice under rigid control. “I’ve been working on it day and night. I even put a man on the inside.”

  “A man on the inside? Sweet Jesus. Without running it by me?”

  “I authorized it,” said the president sharply. “Let’s stay focused on the problem at hand and stop bickering.”

  “What, exactly, is this man supposed to be doing?” said Morton, ignoring the president.

  “He’s looking into the delay, trying to figure out what’s behind it.”

  “And?”

  “I expect results tomorrow.”

  “How are you in contact with him?”

  “By secure sat phone,” said Lockwood. “Unfortunately, if he’s in the Bunker with the rest, it doesn’t work underground.”

  “Try it anyway.”

  With a shaking hand, Lockwood wrote the number on a piece of paper and handed it to Jean.

  “Put it on speaker,” said Morton.

  The phone rang five times, ten, fifteen.

  “Enough,” said Morton, staring hard at Lockwood. Then he slowly turned to the president. “Mr. President, may I respectfully suggest that we move this meeting to the Situation Room? Because I have the feeling it’s going to be a long night.”

  Lockwood stared at the Great Seal on the carpet. It all seemed so unreal. Was it possible they had gotten to Ford and turned him, too?

  45

  HAZELIUS LAY SPRAWLED ACROSS THE LINOLEUM floor. Ford rushed over to where he was stretched out and the other members of the team crowded around. Ford knelt and felt the pulse in his neck. It was strong, rapid, and steady. Kate grasped his hand, patting it. “Gregory? Gregory!”

  “Get me a flashlight,” said Ford.

  Wardlaw handed him a flashlight. Ford thumbed Hazelius’s eyelid open and shined the light in. The pupil contracted strongly.

  “Water.”

  A styrofoam cup was thrust into his hands. Ford took out his handkerchief, dipped it in the water, and patted it on Hazelius’s face. The scientist’s shoulders moved slightly, and both eyes fluttered open. They darted around, full of alarm and confusion.

  “What—?”
/>
  “It’s all right,” said Ford. “You just fainted.”

  Hazelius stared around uncomprehendingly. Realization crept back into his eyes. He stuggled to sit up.

  “Take it easy,” said Ford, gently keeping him down. “Wait for your head to clear.”

  Hazelius lay back, staring at the ceiling. “Oh my God,” he groaned. “This can’t be real. This can’t be happening.”

  The smell of hot electronics hung heavy in the stifling atmosphere. Isabella moaned, the sound coming from all directions, as if the mountain itself were keening.

  “Help me into my chair,” Hazelius gasped.

  Kate took one arm, Ford took the other, and they helped him to his feet and walked him to the center of the Bridge, letting him settle into the captain’s chair.

  Hazelius steadied himself on the arms of the chair and looked around. Ford had never seen his eyes such an eerie blue.

  Edelstein spoke fiercely. “Is it true? The names? I must know.”

  Hazelius nodded.

  “There’s an explanation, of course.”

  Hazelius shook his head.

  “Obviously, you told someone,” Edelstein said. “Someone found out.”

  “No.”

  “The doctor who gave your wife the news. He learned the names.”

  “It was a home kit,” Hazelius said hoarsely. “We only found out... an hour before she died.”

  “She called someone. Her mother, perhaps.”

  Again, a vigorous shake of the head. “Impossible. I was with her the whole time. We did the test and talked about the names. That was it. Sixty minutes. We didn’t go anywhere, we didn’t talk to anyone. She was so happy. That’s what burst the aneurysm—the sudden rush of happiness from the news spiked her blood pressure. Cerebral hemorrhage.”

  “There’s a fraud in here somewhere,” said Edelstein.

  Chen shook her head, setting her long black hair awhirl. “Alan, the data is coming out of that hole in space-time. It’s not coming from anywhere in the system. I traced it once, I traced it again, I force-quit the processors in each detector, I did every test I could think of. It’s real.”

  Hazelius drew a shuddering breath. “It knew my thoughts. Just like it knew Kate’s. There’s no getting around it, Alan. There’s no way it could have guessed. Whatever it is, it knows our innermost thoughts. ”

  Nobody moved. Ford tried to wrap his mind around it, find a rational explanation. Edelstein was right: it had to be some kind of deception.

  When Hazelius spoke again, his voice was calm, matter-of-fact. “The machine’s running unattended. All of you, back to your stations.”

  “We aren’t... going to power down?” Julie Thibodeaux asked, her voice quavering.

  “Absolutely not.”

  Isabella continued to hum on autopilot with the immense flow of power. The screens hissed with snow. The detectors sang their strange song. The electronics crackled—as if the tension of the scientists had infected the computer and taken the machine itself to the edge.

  “Alan, get back on the p5s, keep everything steady. Kate, I want you to do some calculations on the geometry of that space-time hole. Where does it go? What does it open into? Melissa, I want you to work with Kate and get on that data cloud. Analyze it at all frequencies—find out what the hell it is.”

  “What about the malware?” Dolby asked, as if unable to comprehend what had happened.

  “Ken, don’t you get it? There is no malware.”

  Dolby looked stupefied. “You think it’s... God?”

  Hazelius returned the man’s look with an unreadable gaze of his own. “I think Isabella’s in communication with something real. Whether it’s actually God—whatever the hell that word means—we don’t have enough data yet. And that’s why we have to keep going.”

  Ford looked around. The shock of what had happened was still sinking in. Wardlaw’s face was dripping sweat. Kate and St. Vincent looked pale as death.

  He took Kate’s hand. “Are you all right?”

  She shook her head. “I’m not sure.”

  Hazelius spoke to Dolby. “How long can we keep it going?”

  “It’s dangerous to keep running at full power.”

  “I didn’t ask you if it was dangerous. I asked you how long.”

  “Two, three hours.”

  “Wait,” said Innes, “Let’s not be rash. We need to stop and consider what’s happened here. This is... unprecedented.”

  Hazelius faced Innes. “George, if God spoke to you, would you turn and walk away?”

  “Come now, Gregory! You can’t seriously believe we’re speaking to God!”

  “I merely asked if.”

  “I refuse to answer absurd hypotheticals.”

  “George, if we’ve made contact with some kind of universal intelligence, we can’t turn away. Because the opportunity is here. It’s now. It won’t last.”

  “This is crazy,” said Innes weakly.

  “No, George, it isn’t crazy. The thing gave us the proof we asked for. Twice. It may be God, it may be something else. I don’t know. What I do know is: I’m riding this train to the last station.” He looked around fiercely. “What about it? Are you all with me?”

  The singing of Isabella filled the room. The screens flickered. Nobody spoke. But Ford could see the yes in all their faces.

  46

  IN THE BACK BEDROOM OF HIS Oakwood, Pastor Russell Eddy closed his Bible and placed it on one of the tottering heaps of books stacked on his desk. He shoved the piles of books away from his sleeping Mac, clearing himself a space to work. Then he woke the machine up, the monitor bathing the room in cool blue. It was nine o’clock in the evening.

  His head felt clearer than it had ever felt before. God had answered his prayers. God had told him exactly what he must do.

  For a few minutes, he stared at the empty screen, collecting his thoughts. Outwardly his body was still. Inwardly his heart pounded with the zeal of the Holy Spirit. There was a reason he had ended up running a shabby mission church at the edge of the world. There was a reason why Lorenzo had died. Russell Eddy had been placed here as God’s sentry. God had selected him to play a crucial role in the coming End of Days.

  For a half hour he sat very still, thinking intensively about the letter he must write. His mind remained preternaturally clear and sharp as he composed the letter, word by word, in his head.

  He was ready. He bowed his head, uttered a short prayer, and placed his fingers on the computer keyboard.

  My Friends in Christ,

  Many of you watched the show Roundtable America earlier tonight, hosted by the Reverend Don T. Spates. You heard him speak of the Isabella project. You heard Rev. Spates mention a secret source, a “devout Christian on-site” from whom he got his information.

  I am that secret source. God has asked me to reveal to you what I know. What you do with it is between you and the Lord.

  My name is Russell Eddy, pastor of the Gathered in Thy Name Mission on the Navajo Indian Reservation. Ours is a very simple and remote Christian mission located in the desert of Arizona at the foot of Red Mesa, not ten miles from the Isabella project.

  My friends, I bring you news—extraordinary, terrifying, yet joyous news. The event for which Christians have been waiting for two thousand years is happening, right now, even as I write this e-mail.

  The End Days have arrived. The Apocalypse and Rapture are at hand, now, this very night. You read about it in the Left Behind series. Well, now it’s no longer fiction. It’s happening. For real.

  I know many of you have heard claims like this before. Many false prophets have made this very claim in the past. You are skeptical, and rightly so. All I ask is that you hear me out. “He that hath ears to hear, let him hear.”

  Don’t make the mistake of deleting this e-mail. By doing so, you may forfeit your place at the right hand of Jesus Christ on the Day of Judgment. Read what I have to say. Pray. Then decide.

  I begin with two announcement
s. The first is this: the Antichrist is here amongst us. I have met him. I have spoken to him. He is real. His long-laid schemes and plans have reached fruition. As God is my witness, right in front of me he took off his mask and revealed himself.

  My second announcement is even more important: The Apocalypse is now. It begins this very night.

  Naturally, you are skeptical. You say, right now? The Apocalypse? With my kids upstairs, sleeping? With my wife in bed? Impossible! But consider what the Apostle Matthew said: “In such an hour as you think not, the Son of man cometh.” This is that hour. It is here. Now.

  And now I will give you proof of what I say. The key is Revelation 13:1 and nearby passages.

  “And I stood upon the sand of the sea, and saw a beast rise up out of the sea, having seven heads and ten horns, and upon his horns ten crowns, and upon his heads the name of blasphemy.”

  The “sand of the sea” is the Arizona desert. Isabella is exactly seven leagues in diameter. Isabella has ten different detectors, each one recording ten different particles. Some of the detectors are actually called “horns.” If you think I’m making this up, check the Isabella Web site, www.theisabellaproject.org. It’s all there.

  “The dragon gave him his power, and his seat, and great authority.”

  And who is the Antichrist running the show? He is a man named Gregory North Hazelius. He is the one who proposed the Isabella project, who got the money for it, and who now leads the team. The New York Times calls Hazelius the “smartest man on earth.” Hazelius himself has made many boasts. He once said “everyone is beneath me intellectually” and called human beings a “race of morons.” That’s right, my friends. But now his true nature is revealed: Gregory North Hazelius is the Antichrist. You doubt me? I met him. I spoke to him, face-to-face. I listened to his blasphemy, his vomiting of bile about our Savior. I listened to him curse Christians as “insects” and “bacteria.” But don’t believe me: believe the Bible. Here’s more from Revelation 13.

  “And they worshipped the beast, saying, Who is like unto the beast? And there was given unto him a mouth speaking great things and blasphemies.... And he opened his mouth in blasphemy against God, to blaspheme his name, and his tabernacle, and them that dwell in heaven.”