Irving closed his eyes and cried quiet little sobs. He shook his head. He didn’t want to disappoint the master.
“And that’s why I’m here,” said Carter. “That’s why the master chose me.” He sat in Director Irving’s desk and put his feet up. “He’s been a little displeased with your performance so far. First you fail to inform him that agents were watching the home of one of his potential clients. And Stone nearly gets shot to pieces. Then he asks you to send Dr. Hartman to the compound, and for some reason you ask me to tag along. The prophet was surprised by that and was forced to improvise. So he took me under his wing as well. And my assignment, Eugene, is to make sure you don’t screw it up. Call me the prophet’s insurance plan. That’s like the master, isn’t it? Always thinking ahead.”
Irving nodded. It was like the master. Irving wasn’t sure why he felt so certain of this—he had no evidence to support the claim—but the master was good at things, after all, so it must be true.
“I’m glad we see eye to eye, Director Irving. Because it isn’t over yet.” He put his feet down and picked up a pen off Irving’s desk, spinning it in his fingers. “Now, about this Healer your boys shot and apprehended. Pray tell, what are we going to do about him?”
Frank opened his eyes and immediately vomited up water. He was still in the river, pressed against a felled tree positioned between the rocks. The current churned around him, pulling at his feet and nearly sucking him under again. But his arms were draped over the tree, and his head was up. He reached out with the one arm that didn’t pain him, grabbed a tree branch, and pulled himself out of the water.
The tree surface was slick, but he steadied himself well enough to examine his shoulder. The bullet had entered just below the collarbone. An ugly circular scar was evidence of that. But the hole in the back was much larger—going out was always messier than going in—and instead of a scar, all he felt was gristle. That would take more time to heal.
At least it was healing. He was grateful for that. And at least the bullet went clean through—missed his lung and his clavicle, likely making it one of the luckiest point-blank wounds ever inflicted.
Looking back upstream he saw the cliff, a good half mile away. Somehow he had floated down here without drowning.
He swung one leg over and straddled the tree. It traversed the river just at its surface and acted like a filter, catching not only him but also every other scrap of debris that floated downstream. There were sticks and trash hooked in its many branches. And then he saw it—the bag—snagged on a branch nearby and bobbing in the current. He crawled to it and retrieved it. It was drenched and mostly empty, but there were a few vials of medication still inside. He zipped it up and threw it over his good shoulder.
Then, crawling along the tree, he reached the shoreline. Once on solid ground he lay back and rested, clothes dripping, muscles aching. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so exhausted and wanted nothing more than to sleep.
But he knew he couldn’t. There was no time.
He got to his feet. If he followed the river downstream he could probably find a road. He was at the bottom of the mountain now. Civilization had to be close. Which meant freedom and safety. As for the others, he could find a phone, contact the BHA, give them his location, and wait for reinforcements.
But how long would it take them to get here? An hour? Two? There was no way of knowing. And everything depended on his finding a phone away from civilians—not an easy task.
He looked upstream. If he followed the river that way, he could probably find the trail again. That would lead him to the barn. Back to Wyatt and Monica, who were no doubt frightened and in more danger now than ever. If not dead already.
He lifted his eyes to the sky. The sun was low in the horizon, and dark clouds were maneuvering. He had to make a choice. Upstream or down. Safety or danger.
He took off at a run, guessing that it would be dark by the time he reached the barn.
The rain fell in such heavy sheets that a steady stream of water trickled down the front of Lichen’s hood. He had pulled it over his head to protect his face from the downpour, but it did little now. He was completely soaked through. And to make matters worse, the prophet was leading them up the mountain at a snail’s pace, insisting on taking the lead, and refusing to allow anyone to run ahead. Lichen grunted. It felt ridiculous to move this slow.
He leaned to a Healer’s ear. “I could be inside and drying right now were we not inching through the mud so slowly.”
“Your place is at the prophet’s side,” the Healer said.
“Assuming this man is the prophet.”
The Healers looked at him disapprovingly. “Blood doesn’t lie, Lichen. He’s a match. You saw so yourself.”
“And yet he seems strange to me.”
“Your feelings, Lichen, are of no importance to this work. It is your service to the prophet that should be your only concern.”
“He took the life of another. We were to wait for all the vessels to be born again. Then they were to counsel together and disperse. All were to live. This one has disrupted that.”
“The disruption, Lichen, comes from your own lack of faith. The prophet does all things for a reason.”
Lichen kept quiet after that. It did no good to argue.
Soon a faint orange glow shined in the darkness ahead of them. Lichen squinted and could see that the barn doors were open and a warm fire had been built on the earth inside. Pine stood at the doorway, saw them approaching, and waved.
Hal waved back. “See how they worship me?” he said. “Look how they welcome their prophet.”
Lichen felt all the more uneasy. Even the man’s speech was different. He has authority, yes, but pride also, boasting. Gone is the kindness in his voice. This was not the prophet Lichen knew.
They entered the barn and quickly surrounded the fire, grateful for the warmth of it.
Pine looked at Hal and spoke to Lichen. “Where is the other one?”
“Dead,” said Hal.
Pine’s face became hard. “You will not speak unless spoken to.”
Hal slapped him.
Pine was so surprised that he simply stood there, slackjawed.
“Am I a dog to you?” said Hal.
Pine looked at Lichen, begging an explanation.
“Our prophet is returned,” said Lichen.
Pine looked mortified and dropped to one knee. “I beg your pardon, sir. I was unaware.”
So much for waving to the prophet, thought Lichen.
“A simple mistake, Pine. I look different. I shouldn’t expect you to know me by sight only. However, I cannot tolerate even mistaken defiance. You will stand in the rain for your impudence.”
Pine raised his bowed head. “Sir?”
“You have insulted him who gave you Life Greater. I think your punishment especially mild. Do you disagree?”
Lichen looked at some of the other Healers and wondered if they thought this as ridiculous as he did.
“You find this amusing, Lichen?”
Lichen realized that he was smiling and stopped. “I only find it amusing, sir, that Pine would be so foolish as not to know you immediately.”
Hal considered this. “Foolish indeed. Outside, Pine, before I change my mind and opt for a more humiliating form of punishment.”
Pine got up, a look of bewilderment still on his face, as if he thought everyone would start laughing and tell him it had all been a practical joke. But no one spoke. And when he got out in the rain, he turned away from them and bowed his head shamefully. Almost immediately he was as drenched as those who had just come out of the rain. Lichen pitied him. The prophet would never do this, he thought. He built the species, never tore it down.
Hal removed his suit coat. “Take off your wet garments, gentlemen. Let us dry ourselves and discuss our future.” He hung the coat on one of the stall walls, and his eyes met Monica’s. She was huddled in the stall with Wyatt, Byron, and Dolores. Nick lay on the ground, covered wi
th one of the Healer’s capes.
“Your work is appreciated, Doctor. I never got a chance to thank you. Allow me to do so now.”
Monica said nothing. She kissed Wyatt on the top of the head and held him close.
“Not even a ‘You’re welcome’?” said Hal. “Come now, Doctor. You and I have taken a giant leap together. Will you not at least acknowledge our achievement?”
“What are you going to do with us?” said Dolores.
Hal lowered his voice. “As much as I find you amusing, Dolores, there can be only one of us. One leader. It was a mistake of me to think otherwise. Hal’s memories have been very insightful, far more than I would have suspected. Because of him, I know now how unworthy all of you are to join me in this effort.”
“You’re going to kill us?” she said.
Hal frowned. “Don’t be ugly, Dolores. There’s a child present.” He turned away from them and found a crate to stand on by the fire. “Gentlemen, I want to commend you. This day has been a long time coming. Many of you have served me faithfully for some time, and I hope you feel rewarded. Ours is a very delicate circumstance. And I don’t mean cold and drenched by the rain.”
Some of the men laughed, perhaps a little too eagerly, Lichen thought. He wondered if that was either because they wanted this man to be the prophet so badly that they were willing to pretend he was as charismatic as he used to be or if they were all playing along so as not to get sent out in the rain.
“I know I explained to you in detail the actions we would take following my rebirth, how we would spread the gift of healing throughout the world, stop much of human suffering, end the diseases that unnecessarily afflict us. And it was our belief that if there were five of me, five prophets engaged in that work, positioned in key locations throughout the world, then we could divide our resources and accomplish our goals more easily. ‘A Council of Prophets is better than a single prophet,’ I said.” He paused and looked into the fire, heightening the dramatic effect, then lifted his gaze back at them. “But I was wrong.”
A low murmur came from the crowd, and Hal lifted his hands to quiet them. “Our mission has not changed, brethren. Our goal has not diminished. We will achieve what we hoped to. But to suppose that a council is stronger than the man after whom it is modeled is foolishness. There can be only one prophet. One. A single leader, a single mind. What good comes from five identical minds counseling together? Is their shared knowledge and experience not the same? Is their thinking not already aligned with the others? What good does it do a man to talk to himself?
“No. The Council is unnecessary. In fact, I believe that the council is the greatest threat to our survival.”
Again he paused as the Healers rustled uncomfortably. “What I tell you is hard, yes. It is different from what we have prepared for, fought for, even died for. But it is wisdom. If the world found out that five prophets have been born, those who oppress us would rise up in unison against us. We would be labeled barbarians of science, unethical monsters. Our work would grind to a halt. Those we approach to heal would reject us, and the world would linger in misery. The only hope of preserving ourselves and the good we hope to accomplish is to have one prophet. One.”
“But what of the others?” a Healer asked. “They will change soon as well.”
“Yes,” said another. “What of them?”
Hal nodded. “Yes, what of them?” He steepled his hands and looked deep in thought, as if he hadn’t considered that very question until now. “Ours is a difficult mission, brethren. In order to achieve it, a few must fall. This is unfortunate, but the fault is not our own. It cannot be helped. We have been forced to protect ourselves from those who oppress us, going so far as to destroy our own laboratories to ensure that our secrets do not fall into their hands. And as a result, some innocent lives are lost. Naturally, for every one that falls, we will heal a thousand others. But a few must fall. And as much as it saddens me, I see no other alternative for the remaining vessels. They must be ended.”
There was no murmur this time, only silence.
“Remember whom we chose to be the vessels, brethren. These were those whom society had rejected. They were the least among us. We could even say that they were already dead, slaves to alcohol or drugs or ignorance. For a time we gave them a reason to live. But that reason has expired. And so they are dead again. We do them a service by releasing them from a life of suffering and pain.” He held up a copy of The Book of Becoming. “Hear the words which have guided us, brethren, and you will see that there in wisdom is my thinking.” He opened to a select passage and, in his most persuasive and holy of voices, began to read.
Frank saw the Healer standing guard out front in the rain and chose to approach the barn from the rear instead. The storm provided good cover, and he reached the back without being noticed. He looked inside. There was Hal, speaking to the Healers and holding their attention. It was as good a distraction as Frank was likely to get, so he crept inside, staying in the shadows until he reached the stall where Monica and the others were being held.
Dolores saw him and gasped, but not loud enough for anyone outside the stall to hear. And Byron, who had been digging furiously at the earth near the wall, looked up with equal surprise.
“We thought you were dead,” whispered Dolores.
“We’ve got to hurry,” Frank said. “Can he walk?” He nodded to Nick and knew the answer before Monica gave it.
“He hasn’t moved since you left. And his fever’s gone up.”
“Here.” He handed her the medical bag. She opened it and prepared a syringe. Nick took the shot and moaned in his sleep.
“You all need a dose,” she said.
“Once we’re in the clear,” said Frank. “Byron, you think you can carry him again?”
“Beats the alternative.”
“We can’t outrun them,” said Dolores.
“I found another way up from the river,” said Frank. “If we can make it to the trees, I think we can lose them in this storm. They won’t be able to track us. Wyatt, you’re with me, riding piggyback”
Wyatt clung to his mother and didn’t move.
“He’s afraid,” she said.
Frank got down to his level. “What’s the matter with you? Afraid I’ll drop you?”
Wyatt shook his head.
“Afraid you might not be able to hold on tight enough?”
“I can hold on tight.”
“Cannot.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Prove it.”
He wasn’t falling for it. “I want to go with my mom.”
“She’ll be right beside us.”
Wyatt looked up at his mother, considered this, then turned back at Frank. “You promise?”
“Promise.”
Wyatt held up his little finger. “Pinky swear?
Frank hooked Wyatt’s finger with his own. “Pinky swear.”
Wyatt climbed unto Frank’s back. Byron bent down to pick up Nick, but before he touched him Nick let out a scream that ripped through the silence and filled the entire barn. Byron recoiled. And before anyone could stop him, Nick sprang to his feet and ran out of the stall.
Hal stopped speaking, and all the Healers turned as Nick stumbled toward them. A few of them backed off, startled by his crazed approach. And then all at once, Nick became still and quiet. He stood there, getting his balance and blinking his eyes, as if waking from a deep sleep. Everyone watched in silence.
And then he got his bearings and looked at their faces. “Lichen, I worried I might not see you again.” He took Lichen’s hands. “I hope you’ve been well. I’ve missed your company.”
“The prophet,” a Healer said.
“He isn’t,” said Hal. “He’s acting.”
“Check him,” said Stone.
The Healer with the blood-scanner moved toward Nick.
“No!” said Hal. “I order you not to. We will dispose of this one along with the others.”
The Healer with the
scanner stopped and looked to Stone, unsure how to proceed.
“We must be certain, sir,” said Stone. “Perhaps this one has changed also.”
“Do you disobey him who gave you Life Greater? I order you to take this impostor and return him to his holding place.”
“I am no impostor,” said Nick.
“Silence! Stone, you will order your man to stand down.”
The Healer with the scanner waited.
“There can be only one prophet,” said Hal. “One. Nick is nothing but an insolent child.”
“I am no child,” said Nick, standing erect, his voice booming.
“You will not speak!” Hal shouted. “Stone, your man will stand down.”
Stone nodded for the Healer with the scanner to obey.
“No,” said Lichen, and he grabbed the scanner.
“You will stand down as well, Lichen,” said Stone.
“And turn my back on what we’ve built? No. If there is a charlatan among us, it is this one.” He pointed at Hal. There were gasps from the others.
“How dare you?” said Hal, seething.
“He gives us orders contrary to those given by the prophet. What greater evidence do we need?”
“I am blood of his blood,” said Hal. “Flesh of his flesh.”
Nick grabbed the scanner and pressed it against his arm. It popped and beeped, and then he held it high for all to see. “As am I.”
Lichen read the display. “It’s true. Look.”
“It’s a trick,” said Hal. “Stone, restrain them both.”
Nick smiled and spoke pleasantly. “Don’t bother, Stone. I think we can all clearly see who’s acting here and who’s not.”
“I am George Galen!” said Hal.
“No,” said Nick. “You are Galen and Hal. Which means you’re stained. The memories of the one have influenced the memories of the other. You’re nothing more than a sad imitation of me.”
“And you are nothing but a boy,” said Hal, “weak and foolish, just like Jonathan.”
“You will not speak his name!” said Nick, suddenly fierce. “Jonathan was more a man and friend than you’ll ever be.”
Hal smiled. “Really? I don’t recall ever thinking that. It seems as if you’re the one who’s stained, not me.”
Invasive Procedures Page 29
