The Race for God

by Brian Herbert

  —Findings of the Commission on

  Culture and Religion

  In the wide corridor, McMurtrey and Corona encountered a milling crowd of people, not all of them from Assembly Room B-2. The walls, ceiling and deck were opaque here.

  “So you’re sorry for you-know-what,” Corona said. “Is that all you have to say for yourself?” Her dark eyes danced as she looked up at him.

  “That again! Don’t you ever let up?” He saw Smith on one side of the corridor, speaking in hushed tones with Tully.

  “You’re the one who keeps staring,” Corona said. “Nice beaver shot you just got, I must say.”

  “Blast you!” He lowered his voice, satisfied himself that no one was eavesdropping: “I hardly knew I was doing that! Okay, convict me. I’ve got male hormones screaming through my veins. Lock me up! I’m incorrigible!”

  “I hope so.”

  McMurtrey shook his head, in exasperation. He thought she was teasing, and resolved to give her a big chunk of his mind if she kept this up. He wasn’t ready for anything like this, teasing or not.

  “That Beast business,” she said. “The false prophet stuff. You’d better watch your backside. A fruitcake could come after you. Lots of weapons aboard.”

  McMurtrey chewed at the inside of his mouth.

  A woman said the other people gathered in the corridor were from B-l, and from all around swept anxious talk that no one could find the elevator or stairway.

  McMurtrey noticed Jin standing quietly by one wall. He was entirely nude, had only his broom. Paradoxically he seemed almost invisible in the space he occupied, receiving few glances.

  McMurtrey peered over the heads of shorter people, through a little plexwindow on the door marked B-3. The room was still occupied, and it was apparent that no one in there had yet figured out how to escape. They pulled at the door and pounded on it like victims trapped in a fire, transmitting muffled, panicky noises to the corridor.

  Shalom ben Yakkai tried to help them from the corridor side, without success. He shouted at them, but they didn’t seem to hear him well enough to understand.

  Individuals in the corridor set off every few moments like solo scouts, down each end of the passageway and even into rooms B-l and B-2, searching for egress. They kept coming back with negative reports and blank expressions, and kept going back to look again, disbelieving.

  This did not have a salutary effect on the throng.

  Corona muttered something under her breath.

  A man in navy blue pants and a matching pullover shirt emerged from B-2. McMurtrey heard him comment about the window being visible again, with “white lines all over the place outside.”

  McMurtrey hurried into the room, and was the only one in there. Through the window he saw the extraordinary parallel lines farther away, against a velvet backdrop of stars. He could no longer see the bright blue and purple nebula, and though he squinted, he detected no yellow cloud or human shape within the white lines.

  McMurtrey theorized that whatever he’d seen earlier must have passed through the nebula.

  He heard a noise, saw Corona peripherally, moving to his side.

  “The white lines again,” he said.

  “What do you suppose they are?”

  “I don’t have any idea.” McMurtrey felt dull, almost numb and mesmerized by the lines. It was similar to the way he’d felt when he stared for long periods at Shusher upon first seeing the ship, and akin to the way he’d felt sometimes as a child when he spent long periods staring into water.

  “They almost look like projections from Shusher now,” she suggested, “or from Appy. Where does Shusher end and Appy begin?”

  McMurtrey caught her gaze for an instant, shrugged.

  “Maybe it’s a galactic tracking mechanism,” Corona said, “a collision sensor or a plow that scatters space debris out of the way.”

  They stared at the lines for a long while, which remained visibly unchanged, as did the stars behind them.

  Presently McMurtrey and Corona returned to the corridor.

  The pilgrims began to voice anxiety over their perceived lack of control over their own destinies. Some spoke of the alleged despotism of Appy, and even of a similar charge against God Himself. This stirred several arguments into motion.

  Through all of it Yakkai tried to aid those in B-3, primarily by pulling on the door handle. He was assisted by the Sivvy-Isammedan, Zatima. Singh lent a hand too, but all their efforts were to no avail.

  The rabbi stood nearby with arms folded across his chest, staring disapprovingly at Yakkai.

  Yakkai shouted that those inside B-3 might get out by saying “please,” but it became obvious his words weren’t getting through.

  Then a man from B-l tried to communicate with them, asserting that they should play leapfrog as the occupants of B-l had done, that at the end of a long train the person reaching the door could burst right through. He said this door, like the door to his own assembly room, would disappear in a blink. But the message couldn’t get through the thickness of wall and door.

  He and Yakkai soon entered into a discussion, and between them it was determined that the doors to rooms B-l and B-2 had opened through entirely different means. They decided that in some bizarre, sadistic fashion Appy had done this to them, and it complicated their rescue efforts.

  Presently Appy began explaining from his hidden perch that the vessel had undergone “structural alterations”—that the chairs disappearing from the assembly rooms, the blocked corridor egress, even the problems escaping the rooms, all had to do with “sudden changes” made to the ship in recent moments. This seemed to conflict with the devil-may-care attitude characterizing Appy’s conversation with persons in B-2 just before the nun uttered the “magic” word, but McMurtrey theorized that these and other aberrations in Appy might have been tied in with the structural changes.

  McMurtrey began to feel claustrophobic. He didn’t much care about the details Appy spewed forth. The air was getting close, depleted of oxygen.

  McMurtrey looked for Jin, didn’t see him. Such a strange man. A man of peace, but with a sense of mystery and power about him.

  Appy droned on about gross vehicle tonnage, metric dimensions, numbers of bunks and levels, fuel consumption, and the assigned passengers who for unspecified reasons had not boarded Shusher the day before on D’Urth.

  McMurtrey wondered if Corona’s intrusion into an off-limits area of the ship might have left the Appy-Shusher com-link damaged, letting in noise from other areas of the ship. Maybe Shusher was reacting psychotically to an excess of noise by inhaling chairs and locking doors.

  Appy’s words came back to him: “This ship likes to travel quietly, and it has effective methods of enforcing its wishes.”

  What did it expect, for heaven’s sake, in an inundation of excited pilgrims?

  More questions for Appy.

  McMurtrey wasn’t the only one with questions. The pilgrims all around were shouting relentlessly at Appy—asking why they couldn’t go back to D’Urth and why Appy couldn’t produce proof of God’s participation in this venture, which was fast appearing ill-fated. Some people had already ordered meals, just before the meetings, and they were complaining now about the food, comparing it with bland hospital fare. One man railed about poor vocal quality in the book-tape of Sidney’s Comet, and a few non-ascetics said their quarters were uncomfortably small and cramped.

  These pilgrims were in a surly mood.

  Corona even used this opportunity to vocalize about her lost captaincy, and she asked about the white lines outside. But Appy, even if he felt besieged, didn’t answer. Apparently he didn’t have to address any of the queries. He droned away about how much smaller and more “tidy” the ship was now, failed entirely to explain whether or not they had littered the cosmos with debris, and elaborated on certain essentially cosmetic alterations the ship had undergone.

  He said this ship and the others that had been lined up across St. Charles Beach were c
omposite visions formed by the passengers who were going to board them—and that these mental images materialized after being projected through the channel, McMurtrey.

  McMurtrey glanced around. People were staring at him.

  Appy explained that the number of cabins had been reduced in the metamorphosis, and that the ship’s exterior no longer had visible rivets on it.

  “The people left behind were predominantly rivet visualizers,” Appy said. “Through a curious phenomenon, few of them made it, and with distance across space the maintenance power of their mental images has faded. Somewhat in the manner of recessive genes, the exterior rivets remaining with us are latent. Most of you are smooth-surface visualizers.”

  “The other guys are all riveted back on D’Urth,” McMurtrey suggested.

  Corona laughed.

  “Will this have an effect on ship’s speed?” a man shouted.

  “Everything could have an effect on our rate of travel,” the computer replied, “even your very utterance of those words.”

  “What do you mean?” the man asked.

  “It will become apparent.”

  “When?”

  “When you are ready.”

  “Riddles!”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do.”

  “Okay.”

  “Shut up! Can’t anyone get the last word in on you?”

  “If you wish.”

  “Shut up!”

  “Okay.”

  McMurtrey recalled the arguments between Appy and Shusher over speed and damage to the skins between universes, wondered how the private information he and Corona shared had a bearing on what Appy told the man. McMurtrey thought he heard a faint humming. It was ever so difficult to distinguish, but in tone resembled a schoolyard taunt. From Appy?

  The man seemed ready to burst his blood vessels, and one of the Hoddhists spoke to him soothingly. This helped.

  “The answer” Archbishop Perrier said, “will become apparent. All things are possible to him who believes.”

  “Bullcrud,” Corona snapped to McMurtrey. “Some of these people are consummate idiots.”

  McMurtrey nodded.

  The corridor became much quieter, and people didn’t move around so much. Like confused, traumatized animals they awaited word of their fate. Whispered prayers could be heard, in Isammic, Floriental, Nandustani, Unglish . . .

  Yakkai and the rabbi conversed a short distance away, in controlled, hostile tones. Presently they ceased whatever they were arguing about and moved apart.

  Even the people inside B-3 stopped struggling with the door. McMurtrey saw a young man’s cleanshaven face at the tiny window, a face that stared blankly into the corridor.

  “You might wonder why all the ships looked essentially the same,” Appy continued. “They’re in flight, by the way, not that far behind us now.”

  Someone booed.

  “The ships were of different colors and sizes and had slight variances, but essentially all looked very much alike. Just as humans look essentially the same.”

  “Sure, we’re in God’s likeness,” a man said.

  “Quiet,” Appy said. “This isn’t kindergarten, so nobody raise your hands, okay? I have the floor. Humans are basically alike in what they want, even, remarkably, in the way they view life. Impoverished, wealthy, it makes no material difference. There’s televid, magazine tapes, radio, all those homogeneous forces making people think alike, making them crave to be alike.”

  “That’s idiotic,” Johnny Orbust said. “People who are really impoverished don’t have televids. They can’t even read.” Orbust had the shiny metallic Snapcard in his hand, and McMurtrey noticed that the card was held under tension, causing it to bend.

  “Your information does not agree with mine.”

  “Then update,” Orbust said. “Have someone carry your mainframe into the boonies. I mean the real boonies. Look in the outback, jungles, remote mountain regions, deserts. You’re on a theoretical plane, dealing with abstractions.”

  McMurtrey hated to admit it, but Orbust was making sense. Not that McMurtrey held any affection for Orbust over Appy, but nonetheless it was gratifying to see a human holding ground against a sophisticated computer. The card in Orbust’s hand glinted and sparkled. Appy wasn’t responding.

  With an eyelid beginning to twitch, Orbust continued his offensive. “A starving person in a Third World nation with the same life view as that of a pampered, wealthy socialite? What you’re saying is ludicrous.”

  “You weren’t listening carefully,” Appy countered. “I said ‘basically alike,’ and ‘it makes no material difference.’ These words are subject to analysis and interpretation. We’re dealing with averages here, not rules which hold true to the last man.”

  “You didn’t say that,” Orbust said.

  “I meant that, as anyone with half a brain can see. We were speaking of averages as applied to the materialization of these ships . . . they’re from images projected by men as I said. Then I carried it a step further, to common life-views held by multitudes of people.”

  “Your thesis isn’t provable,” Orbust said. “How do we know that what you’ve told us about the creation of these ships is true? How do we know you aren’t a liar, saying these things with an ulterior, self-serving motive?”

  “I do not serve myself!” Apply said, haughtily. “I serve the Ancient of Days, and at His command I serve humankind.”

  “Well, in order to properly serve humankind, you’d better learn to understand it better. I don’t care what you say about these ships or about life-views. People are different.”

  “You just trapped yourself,” Appy said. “If people are different, why are Reborn Krassees like you so narrow-minded about alternate belief systems?”

  “You’re playing with words,” Orbust said. “People are different, but they all must take one path. There is only one proper view of theology, of life, of everything that means anything at all, and it is my destiny to lead others to salvation.”

  “Enough!” Zatima screeched. Unnoticed by McMurtrey, she had closed the gap between herself and Orbust, and now stood indignantly with her hands on her hips, less than a meter from him.

  Startled, Orbust lost hold of the Snapcard, which he had been bending slightly. The card sprang toward Zatima, falling to the deck beside her. Nanak Singh, her constant companion, placed one foot over it.

  Appy went on the offensive: “These averages, these composites, are from the contributions of many people. Everyone involved will see a vague familiarity in all ships, and only one slightly more specific familiarity in one ship. It’s subliminal, and, like magnets, all present were drawn by televid images to this ship.”

  “You’re an awfully noisy computer on a ship that wants quiet,” Orbust said. He took half a step toward Singh, seemed to be measuring the strength and determination of his adversary Orbust’s eyelid fluttered wildly, forcing him to close that eye. A throbbing vein on his forehead became apparent, and his features tightened angrily.

  “Shusher doesn’t hear me,” Appy said. “Unless I go on a special comlink at his frequency. He can’t hear the vibratory exchange between me and humans. Ah yes, the off-limits signs. Which of you went where you weren’t supposed to go?”

  McMurtrey and Corona exchanged uneasy glances.

  He doesn’t know? McMurtrey thought.

  “Not talking, eh?” Appy said. “All right, we’ll deal with that later. Fair warning: The area is booby-trapped.”

  “He’s lying,” Corona whispered. “Either that or the traps didn’t work.”

  “Why doesn’t he know it’s you?” McMurtrey whispered.

  “Sometimes he acts like he sees us, though I haven’t noticed any cameras.”

  Corona shrugged. “Who knows?”

  “Anyway, you’d think the comlinks to God or Shusher would report such data.”

  “Yeah, you’d think so.”

  McMurtrey had been watching Orbust, Zatima and Singh. These thre
e were locked in a staring contest and a little dance in which their bodies made subtle shifts that an observer could only see with close attention—Orbust inching toward the ParKekh foot that covered his Snapcard, the ParKekh’s hand near his scabbard, Zatima sliding between the two men as if to keep them from violence.

  Thus far, Orbust showed no indication of employing his gun to enforce his desires, but the situation looked volatile. He had only one eye open, and his words were suffused with rage. “You believe in reincarnation, don’t you, ParKekh?”

  Singh nodded warily.

  “And in that belief system, a person who does not lead a proper life can be reincarnated as a lowly animal, even as a frog?”

  “You will reincarnate even lower,” Singh snapped.

  “And in turn, if the frog does not lead a proper life, it will reincarnate as something less?”

  The ParKekh glowered.

  “Tell me,” Orbust said, glancing at his Snapcard under the bearded holy man’s sandal, “what are the criteria for being a good frog? It’s easy to see that your belief in spiritual recycling is misguided.”

  The ParKekh looked nonplussed.

  McMurtrey noticed that Orbust was doing fairly well in this debate without his card, and that Singh didn’t seem to be aided by it. Maybe a person had to have direct skin contact with the card, or it only worked for Orbust.

  “There are ways of being a good frog,” Zatima interjected. “One must be a frog to know them.”

  “Can’t he speak for himself?” Orbust said.

  “‘O my Lord, who can comprehend Thy excellence?’” the ParKekh intoned. “‘None can recount my sinfulness. Many times I was born as a tree, many times as an animal, and many times I came in the form of a snake and many times I flew as a bird: . . .’”

  Suddenly, Orbust shoved Zatima out of the way and lunged toward his Snapcard, without drawing his gun.

  The ParKekh holy man was a fighting machine, with a frightening array of lethal kicks, elbow shots, backhand moves and whirling explosions of power. Orbust took blows to each upper arm, and the cracking impact of bone on bone made those appendages useless. His legs went next, and he crumpled to the deck, receiving at least two blows in the face as he went down. Orbust writhed on the deck and twitched involuntarily about the head and neck as if he had damage to his nervous system. The brow over one of his eyes bled profusely, and he was unable to bring a hand to cover it.