The Race for God

by Brian Herbert

  “Tananius-Ofo. That’s the name of the planet where God is, the name of the place we’re going.”

  Corona grunted, continued: “Appy mentioned a race, and a ‘pleasure program’ he wanted to win. He said Shusher’s stupidity was going to cost them victory.”

  “Wow.”

  “Anyway, Shusher said something—about God not liking Appy, I think—and suddenly the ship smoothed out. Maybe the comment put Appy in shock, or they worked out a speed compromise I didn’t hear. They have overlapping responsibilities and powers, and maybe God prefers to let them fight it out most of the time. Sometimes it’s best that way with children.”

  “Children at the controls of this ship?”

  “Maybe,” Corona said. “Who knows what the definition of a child is to them. All I know is this ship has big problems. Oh! I’m losing the connection. Or they’ve stopped communicating.”

  Corona squinted one eye, had a perplexed expression on her face. She put a forefinger in each ear, rubbed around in the entrances to the ear canals. “Strange sensation of pressure changing,” she said. “Whenever the voices come and go.”

  Past Corona to the right, a window dominated one wall, showing a giant purple and blue nebula hanging in space like an artist’s rendition, so delicate and lovely it almost didn’t seem real to McMurtrey. Large blue and white stars were set in the midst of glowing, veiny swirls of mysterious purple and blue clouds, clouds that were thick at the center of the nebula and delicate veils at the edges.

  “We’re entering a spectacular nebula,” Corona said, noting his line of vision. “Comparable to anything I’ve ever seen. I’m not sure where we are, maybe to one side of our galaxy’s center. We shouldn’t be too far out yet, but who knows?”

  “You’re talking about being lost in space. Hell, I’m lost on this ship, really turned around. We went down to get here, which should place us in the rear or quote unquote ‘bottom’ of the ship as it flies in space. But from this view, we seem to be at the top, seeing where we’re headed.”

  “It’s probably done with high-quality mirrors and prisms,” Corona said. “I don’t think we’re looking directly into space from this room. Where they do look directly out, and some of the portholes seem to, they must use shielded glass to protect us from X-rays and gamma rays. Short-wavelength radiation could be fatal out here.”

  “Do the direct-view windows look adequate to you?”

  “Well, the safest way is without windows, using remote televid cameras. I’ve seen tiny particles embedded in some of the window glass, and my guess is that those particles absorb the harmful stuff. No use worrying now. We’re a captive audience.”

  “In God’s hands,” McMurtrey said.

  Although assembly room seats were not assigned, Appy had an arcane method of keeping track of those present. Like a nagging parent, he kept listing the names of the tardy. Finally the list was short: Orbust, Zatima and Singh. He identified each by religion, and so McMurtrey learned that Singh was a ParKekh, not a Nandu.

  The corridor door banged open, and Zatima stomped in. Behind her trailed Singh, and he let go of the door prematurely, causing it to swing against Orbust.

  Orbust said something.

  It must have been a caustic comment, for Zatima whirled and faced him.

  The ParKekh drew his sword halfway out of the scabbard.

  Then Zatima spoke to her bodyguard in a low tone, and he relaxed his grip on the sword. It slid back into its pocket.

  Zatima pointed toward seats in the back row, near McMurtrey, and she and Singh made their way in that direction.

  Orbust selected a seat in the front row by Tully.

  McMurtrey presumed that Appy was calling the roll in the other assembly rooms as well, via a complex networking and surveillance arrangement. McMurtrey envisioned Appy as a mini-god, omnipresent and multifunctioning.

  A multiple-armed Nandu god, Heeva the Mighty, came to mind, a god considered by its followers to be the source of good and evil, the creator of life and the destroyer of life. It was a fragment from McMurtrey’s studies.

  “Interesting debate in the corridor,” Appy said.

  Johnny Orbust smiled.

  “Of course Mr. Orbust had help with the debate,” Appy said.

  The corners of Orbust’s mouth turned downward.

  Is Appy going to mention the Snapcard? McMurtrey wondered.

  “A gun on the hip has a rather intimidating effect,” Appy said. “And Zatima’s armed escort. I’m surprised the participants didn’t kill one another. How can either of you discuss scripture with weapons at the ready?”

  “Mine is not for offensive purposes,” Orbust said, uneasily. “It’s purely defensive.”

  “Is it?” Appy asked. “Is it true that ‘the meek shall inherit D’Urth?’ Or is it more accurate to say that the powerful shall control that domain? Hasn’t this always been true? Survival of the fittest?”

  “How can you, a . . . computer of God . . . blaspheme scripture?” Orbust asked. “You’re twisting the holy word.”

  “Is it blasphemy to ask questions?” Appy queried. “This is one of the matters we will address on this journey. What is holy and what is not? Who is to decide such matters? Oh, I could pose endless questions!”

  McMurtrey heard whispered conversation, turned and saw Zatima saying something in a low tone to Nanak Singh.

  “It is interesting to discuss interpretation of scriptural passages,” Appy said. “Assuming in the first place that scripture was taken down correctly, it must be asked who did the translations from one language to another . . . and it must be asked if all of the passages were included. In the Krassian books, for example, there is a body of testamentary literature that didn’t make it into the Babul, perhaps for political reasons. I refer to the Tignos Gospels.”

  “Blasphemy!” Orbust shouted. With an angry slap of leather he drew his Babul from its shoulder holster. He flipped through the pages, muttered to himself.

  Two nuns near McMurtrey, one in black and one in white, scowled and whispered to one another while looking around the room nervously, apparently trying to discern the location of the P.A. speakers. Appy’s voice seemed to come from everywhere.

  “Interpretation,” Appy said. “What, for example, is the definition of the word ‘Beast’ as it appears in the Babul? I’ve heard it used by some religions to refer to political entities, such as the Outer Planet Confederacy. Reborn Krassees have used the term synonymously with the name of the Pope; KothoLus have in turn said that Blue Presbyism is the ‘Beast.’ I’ve even overheard pilgrims aboard ship suggesting that Mr. McMurtrey might be the ‘Beast,’ since he’s perceived as an atheist. He’s in Cabin Sixty-six, Level Six. Three sixes are the sign of Satan.”

  “You’re the Beast, Appy!” one of the nuns shouted. “You assigned the cabin numbers!”

  “Did I?” Appy countered. “Or did I only do what I had to do, what I was commanded to do?”

  The nun appeared embarrassed at her outburst and slouched into her chair, as if wishing she could disappear from view.

  The Beast? McMurtrey thought. Satan? What have I gotten into?

  “And what is the definition of ‘the Krassos’?” Appy asked, undeterred. “There are those, for example, who believe that this term refers to more than a person, that it refers more importantly to one part of a collective interplanetary consciousness consisting of every human being. ‘Krassos consciousness,’ in this interpretation, is an emerging of consciousness based upon astrological cycles. It is tied in with the belief in a Nandubhaga-type avatar or divine teacher who will one day externalize in human form for all of mankind. To the Hoddhists, it is Hoddha or Eyamai; to the Isammedans, it is the Prophet Isammed; to the ParKekhs it is another entity, and so on.” Appy fell silent, leaving the room in agitated whispers.

  Corona nudged McMurtrey.

  “I saw you staring at my breasts this morning, you bad beast,” she whispered.

  McMurtrey flushed, glanced around to see if
anyone had heard her. He couldn’t look at Corona after that remark! But she hadn’t sounded angry.

  McMurtrey shook his head in exasperation. How should he respond and how many variations of correctness were there? Time was ticking, and he hadn’t answered. Maybe it was a test of some kind, God seeing if McMurtrey would do the proper thing. Kelly Corona was Satan. She was a siren calling, tempting him toward the rocks.

  I haven’t answered her yet. I’ve got to answer!

  “I’m sorry,” McMurtrey whispered.

  No response came, and a sidelong glance revealed to McMurtrey that Kelly Corona was smiling gently.

  Then she said, a little too loudly: “If I didn’t want you to stare at them, I’d wear a barrel.”

  Beyond Corona the stars of the nebula were larger and much brighter than before, evidence of the ship’s motion. They were fiery purple and blue suns, of indeterminate size.

  Suddenly the view dimmed, and McMurtrey saw parallel white lines between the ship and the nebula, lines that covered the entire field of vision and permitted a view through the spaces between them. McMurtrey squinted, detected a yellow glow in the darkness between the lines. It was an odd, humanlike shape of light, and cloudlike in its lambency . . . a flickering image, harder and harder to perceive.

  McMurtrey had seen D’Urth clouds in unusual shapes, reminiscent of humans and animals. The tendency of the mind to anthropomorphize.

  “They’re back!” Corona exclaimed. She shuddered. “Appy’s really ticked now, telling Shusher to stay away from the speed controls. Shusher says the speed and takeoff controls are part of the ship, part of himself. How can he stay away from himself, he’s asking!”

  McMurtrey held her hand, and as he touched her he felt a shudder course through his body, followed by a compression shift in his ears. Then his ears popped, and a voice filled one ear—-Appy! McMurtrey’s eyes opened wide and he saw Corona staring at him quizzically.

  “I hear Appy!” McMurtrey whispered. He glanced around. No one was paying attention to them.

  The ship rocked, and several people grabbed hold of chair backs to keep from falling.

  “What was that?” a man asked.

  The white lines in the window became smaller and apparently more distant.

  “Slow down, dammit!” Appy roared, across the private channel, “That thing’s a skinbeater like us! Stay away from it and don’t tailgate! You can’t pass! You’ll rip the skins apart!”

  McMurtrey released his grip on Corona’s hand, and Appy’s voice went away, with a pop in McMurtrey’s ears. He touched Corona again, and this time heard a peculiar sonar squeal in his other ear. That would be Shusher, if Corona’s theory held true.

  McMurtrey couldn’t make any sense from the squeals.

  “Skinbeater?” McMurtrey said. “What the hell is that?”

  Corona shrugged. “I told you there were problems.”

  A horn brayed distantly, heard by McMurtrey across the private channel, in the background. It was an angry sound, like one motorist trying to pass another.

  Appy said not to pass, and it sounded dangerous. McMurtrey felt a shortness of breath.

  Screams in his left ear: “Don’t try it, Shusher! Dammit, you’ll destroy everything!”

  McMurtrey’s back pressed against the chair.

  Those who hadn’t yet found seats scrambled for them.

  “Acceleration,” Corona said, uneasily. “Feels odd in GravSense, but, baby, we are movin’ out!”

  “Look outside!” one of the nuns exclaimed.

  Corona was looking toward the window, and McMurtrey saw her profiled against it, with the white lines flashing bright yellow around the humanlike cloud shapes behind her. The lines and shapes lost definition, became a blur of yellow. The blur streaked into the distance, became tiny and disappeared.

  The ship was flying smoothly, with the striking blue and purple nebula ahead.

  “It outran you,” Appy said, across the private channel. “I just hope you haven’t screwed up the skins. They’re fragile, you fool.”

  Almost involuntarily, McMurtrey’s gaze rested on Corona’s breasts. They were lovely, with a youthful uplift to them. This woman wasn’t so young, though . . . thirty-five if you squinted. He looked away, lest she nab him again.

  McMurtrey felt a pressure shift in his ears, followed by silence from Appy and Shusher. He noted he was still touching Corona’s hand.

  “They’re gone,” she said.

  No sign of “Redneck” Smith or Jin in this group. Some of the others looked vaguely familiar to McMurtrey, such as the tall and bearded Middist man across from him in the second row, whom he categorized as Sidic by his large fur hat, long black coat, and sidelocks that curled on each side of his head. In that same row, the broad-bearded Greek Hetox priest was familiar too, with his heavy necklace and large silver cross hanging outside a black robe. He carried a Blik Pulverizer rifle sheathed across his back, and he shifted the weapon to his side when he sat down. Just behind him was a white-robed man who wore a small gold cross on his chest. From the gold embroidery of the robe he appeared to be a KothoLu of rather high office, or a priest in ceremonial clothing. McMurtrey didn’t know how to tell the difference.

  The participants sat in uneasy expectation, their eyes shooting nervous, piercing glances around the room. Some conversed with those nearby in low tones. McMurtrey wondered if a person would enter and call the meeting to order, or if Appy would conduct it from his usual vantage. But for a long time no one came, and Appy didn’t speak after concluding his roll call.

  Finally Orbust raised his voice to ask, “What’s going on here? We’re supposed to just sit around staring at each other?”

  When no one answered him and no voice of support arose from the assemblage, he locked gazes with Zatima. For several uncomfortable seconds they engaged in an angry stare-down.

  With a thrust to his feet, Orbust gave up the effort and stomped to the door. Tully followed.

  They took turns tugging at the door handle, even pulled together. The door wouldn’t budge.

  Tully cut loose a string of oaths, which Orbust chastised him for.

  “You may leave when the meeting is concluded,” Appy said, across the P.A. system.

  “What meeting?” Orbust demanded. He faced those in the room, and he appeared to be not only agitated but frightened. His hand went to his holster, touching the handle of the gun.

  There was no reply.

  “What’s the itinerary?” Orbust asked.

  “Yeah!” Tully shouted. “Tell us or we’re bustin’ out!” He eyed Orbust’s gun.

  “I’ve got an explosives kit in this holster,” Orbust said. “You talk, Appy, or I’m—”

  “Sit and shut,” Zatima said, economically.

  “You gonna make me?” Orbust said, glaring at her.

  “If necessary.”

  Orbust laughed, but returned to his seat. He plunked himself down, folded his arms across his chest.

  Tully remained standing by the door.

  The fat little nun in white spoke, in a struggling, tiny voice that squeaked. “I wonder if we’re being sequestered like a jury, assigned to remain here until we determine something. The computer has indicated we should think for ourselves.”

  A man in the group addressed this, but the comment was inconclusive and McMurtrey blocked much of it out, along with the ensuing discussion.

  “What’s going on, Kelly?” McMurtrey asked, not loudly enough for others to hear. He looked to his right, at her.

  Corona shook her head. “You got us into this, Ev. We should be asking you.” From her expression she seemed to be thinking of something else.

  McMurtrey was annoyed, and said, “I see.” He felt an irritation in one nostril, sniffed and felt a sneeze coming through his sinuses like twin freight trains.

  He let go a megablast that caused people nearby to pull away and those farther off to turn their heads toward him.

  “Bless you,” said the nun in white. />
  “Gesundheit,” said the nun in black.

  “A most favorable omen,” the Greek Hetox said. “A good spirit has sneezed out on thee a blessing.”

  “Great,” McMurtrey said, with a sniff. “Shall I try for another?”

  Several people giggled, and McMurtrey noticed people looking at him with rapt expressions.

  Peripherally, he saw Corona gazing at him differently, a hard stare.

  He looked away from her.

  “Not so fast, McMurtrey,” a little man in a white dhoti said. He was bespectacled and toothless, quite old, and his head had been shaven, with stubbles of dark hair showing. “Permit me to introduce myself. I am Kumara Makanji, a Rahmanic Nandu. To us the sneeze is connected with demoniacal influence. A malevolent spirit just entered or left your nose.”

  “Fool of fools!” Zatima exclaimed. “This feeble Nandu knows nothing, like all of his wretched, brain-starved kind! Allah favors sneezing, and that is why I say to the sneezer, ‘Praise Allah and Allah bless you!’”

  “I know nothing, eh?” the Nandu snarled, in a tone that surprised McMurtrey because of the reputed peaceful nature of Nandus, “Sneezing at the beginning of something is unlucky. Many times in history has this been proven. We are at the beginning of a voyage, at the beginning of a meeting. May Rahma have mercy on us. We should return to D’Urth immediately and begin again.”

  “Nonsense,” Zatima said. “If you want to go back, cow-lover, leap from the ship!”

  “I will not!” Makanji said.

  “Tell your precious Rahma to aid you, and if Rahma is worth so much as a pittance, you’ll be carried to safety.”

  “You try it first, Isammedan dog, and if you make it I’ll follow.”

  They glared at one another, and both fell silent.

  This is crazy, McMurtrey thought. A room full of holy apes, fighting about THIS? And me, worried Corona will catch me looking again! He wanted to look and savor, but resisted the urge. His mouth watered.

  “Among my faith,” a little black-coated Middist rabbi said, “as in Krassianism and Isammedanism, a sneeze is followed by a blessing. We speak of asusa, or health, exclaiming, Your health!—God bless you—for a happy life!’ The sneezer then speaks from the Canrah, and is blessed by those present, to which he replies, ‘Be thou blessed!’”