by Mike Resnick
But God had decided to bring a new piece onto the board: His Son. And so Satan had countered with Judas Iscariot. The Son would try to save the human race; Judas would try to nail Him to the cross.
Judas won, yet in winning he lost, and the setting moved elsewhere.…
And finally, back from Somewhere, he was once again in Jerusalem, living the Gospel of Matthew.…
He was Judas Iscariot, and he was tortured. He had sold his master for thirty pieces of silver, and he still didn’t know why.
Was Jesus really the Messiah? He didn’t know that, either. All he knew was that he could no longer tolerate the possession of the money for which he had made his betrayal. Whether Jesus was man or Messiah didn’t matter anymore; whether Jesus lived or died did, and so he determined to sacrifice his own life to save that of his master.
He raced to the Temple and sought out the elders and priests.
“I have sinned!” he cried, hurling the money to the floor in front of them. “I have betrayed the innocent blood!”
“What is that to us?” asked the high priest sardonically.
He knew then that Jesus was indeed doomed, and he left the blood money on the floor and raced out into the night.
He tried once again to examine his motives. Was he trying to force Jesus into some sort of Messianic action? Was he trying to punish him for not being the kind of Messiah he wanted him to be? Or was he merely trying to save the people of Israel from another dashed hope when their new Messiah turned out to be only a man after all? He didn’t know. All he knew was that Jesus of Nazareth would die because of thirty pieces of silver.
He found a length of rope on the ground and picked it up, making a slipknot noose at one end of it. Then he went off to find a tree with a sturdy, low-hanging limb.…
Moore was back in his cubicle. The tapes were over, though it took him a few minutes to acclimatize himself to his surroundings. Finally he emitted a sigh, replaced the nodules, and walked out to the foyer.
“How long was I at it?” he asked.
“Just about ninety minutes,” replied the attendant. “A refund of ten thousand dollars will be transferred to your personal account.” He paused. “If you don’t mind my saying so, you look a little shaken, Mr. Moore.”
“I am.”
“It’s not every day that one gets to betray the Messiah so many times,” said the attendant wryly.
“Was he the Messiah?” asked Moore.
“I have no idea. I should have thought Judas would know.”
“Judas didn’t know any more about it than you do.”
“Odd,” mused the attendant. “I wonder why.”
“Maybe he didn’t have all the facts before him.”
“What fact was missing?”
“A man named Jeremiah,” replied Moore.
Chapter 12
The Golden Lobster, like most other eateasies, was well camouflaged.
It was on the fourth level of State Street, and was fronted by a rather plain dry-cleaning shop which seemed to do a considerable amount of business in its own right.
Once inside, though, the decor delivered on the restaurant’s promise.
The walls were totally covered by gold and yellow Japanese screens and tapestries dating back many centuries, and the chairs and tables were all hand-wrought and gilded. Even the tiles and carpeting glistened like gold, and the dishes and serving carts were gold-plated. Crustaceans of every imaginable size and variety resided in carefully tended triangular golden tanks in the four corners of the room, and the waiters and waitresses were covered with metallic gold body paint and very little else, though each did possess a crown made of glitter-covered seashells.
Moore and Pryor were ushered to a table in the back of the restaurant, where Moore ordered for both of them.
“It’s fabulous!” exclaimed Pryor, looking around the room. “I’ve been meaning to get here for a year now, ever since it opened, but I just never got around to it.”
“The food’s even better than the surroundings,” replied Moore. He waited until a waitress brought Pryor a drink—he himself abstained, as always—and then turned to his assistant.
“You heard where I went this afternoon?”
Pryor nodded. “The Reality Library. Learn anything?”
Moore shook his head. “A waste of time and money. We seem to be running into one dead end after another.”
“So we’re back to where we started?”
“It’s starting to look that way,” said Moore grimly. He turned to Pryor. “Ben, what’s your thinking on Jeremiah?”
“I think he’s a hard man to kill.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“You want a stronger statement?” said Pryor. “Okay. I think that, for some reason we haven’t put our fingers on yet, he’s literally impossible to kill. Personally, I lean toward the mutant theory. It may be weird, but it’s a hell of a lot easier to swallow than Abe’s Messiah crap.”
“I’m open to suggestions,” said Moore. “Got any?”
“I’m no scientist,” said Pryor. “But then, neither is Abe. I think I’d find a few people, maybe down at the University of Chicago, who know something about mutation and see what they have to say.”
“We might as well,” agreed Moore. “Take care of it when you get to the office tomorrow morning.”
“You look dubious.”
“I’m not a betting man, Ben,” said Moore. “But if I was, I’d lay plenty at twelve-to-one that they support what Abe says about mutation. Mutants aren’t supposed to be able to do what Jeremiah does, and I imagine scientists are pretty much like everyone else—they don’t like to come face to face with anything that goes contrary to their beliefs.”
“Just like Christians,” chuckled Pryor. “Wouldn’t it be funny if he was the Messiah?”
“Hilarious,” said Moore dryly.
The waitress reappeared with their dinner—lobster tails for Moore and a variety of shellfish in a wine sauce for Pryor—and they spent the next half hour enjoying the delicious and highly illegal meal. After a flaming dessert was brought to the table, Moore turned to Pryor again.
“Even if he can’t be killed, I want to keep up the pressure. Put out a contract on him.”
“It’s already been done.”
“A bigger one,” said Moore, stirring some sugar into his coffee. “A million dollars. So far we’ve kept this thing in our organization. Let’s pass the word to the freelancers too. Maybe it’ll buy us a little more time.”
Pryor pulled out a pair of cigars and offered one to Moore.
“No, thanks,” replied Moore. “I only use them for props when I’m trying to convince people that I’m a real tough customer.”
“I’ve seen you let them go out just so the muscle can re-light them,” said Pryor, returning one of the cigars to his lapel pocket. “It’s amazing how much a show of deference from a bunch of three-hundred-pound bruisers can impress people.”
“Speaking very calmly helps, too,” said Moore. “Most people expect to be yelled at.”
“Nothing like keeping them off-balance,” agreed Pryor, lighting his cigar. “By the way, you said that you wanted to buy us a little time. What for?”
“Because we’ve all been overlooking one very important fact.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“Jeremiah thinks he can be killed. Once he figures out that he can’t, he’s going to stop running away from us and start running toward us.”
Pryor frowned. “I hadn’t thought of that.” He paused for a moment, then shrugged again. “Still, what the hell can he do?”
“I don’t know—and I sure as hell don’t intend to sit around and find out.”
“So far the only talent he’s demonstrated is strictly a defensive one. I think if he had any offensive capabilities he would have demonstrated them by now.”
“Maybe he doesn’t know what they are,” replied Moore. “Remember, we’re not dealing with any mental giant here. Whatever else he
’s got going for him, brainpower isn’t a part of his arsenal.”
“You hope,” said Pryor.
“I know,” said Moore.
The waitress brought the check, and Moore left seven hundred dollars on the table. He picked up his bodyguards at the door, said goodnight to Pryor, and went back to his apartment, where he spent most of the night reading what he could find on mutation. By the time he arrived at the office in the morning, he knew more about mutants than he had ever cared to know—but he still couldn’t decide what Jeremiah was.
He spent most of the morning attending to routine business. Then, just before noon, he summoned Moira, Pryor, and Bernstein into his office.
“What’s up, Solomon?” asked Bernstein.
“Abe, could luck be a mutant talent?” asked Moore.
“You mean precognition?”
Moore shook his head. “No. If he had precognition, he wouldn’t keep blundering into traps. I’m talking about luck—or, to put it in your terms, an involuntary reaction that enables him to overcome the statistical averages.”
“Such as evading forty-three bullets at point-blank range?” asked Bernstein with a smile. “Do you know how silly that sounds?”
“All right,” said Moore. “Could he conceivably have developed a skin that is practically impervious to bullets?”
“No,” interjected Moira, shaking her head decisively. “I’ve seen him cut himself shaving.”
“Besides,” added Bernstein, “that wouldn’t explain what happened at the Gomorrah. Those bullets didn’t bounce off him, Solomon—they missed him.”
“Ben,” said Moore, “have you got anything from the biologists yet?”
“Too soon,” answered Pryor. “They probably won’t get back to me for a day or two.”
“You’re seeking outside council?” asked Bernstein. “What will you do after they agree with me, Solomon?”
“Ask me when it happens,” replied Moore.
“I’ll be happy to,” said Bernstein. “May I make a suggestion in the meantime?”
“Be my guest.”
“Since you have to wait a couple of days to evaluate the mutant theory, perhaps you should consider the alternative in the meantime?”
“Damn it, Abe—he doesn’t act like a Messiah! Even when he’s done something that was predicted, he’s blundered into it. It’s just crazy!”
“Solomon, there is more evidence that he’s the Messiah than that he’s a mutant, whether you care to admit it or not.”
“Messiahs just don’t pull the kind of boneheaded stunts that Jeremiah pulls,” said Moore. “You’ve got religion on the brain, Abe.”
“Have you ever considered that you might be attacking the problem ass-backwards?” suggested Bernstein.
“What are you talking about?”
“You’ve been hell-bent on proving that Jeremiah isn’t the Messiah. You’ve talked with Milt Greene, you’ve been to the Reality Library, you’ve seen what Jeremiah did to Krebbs, you’ve matched his performance against the accepted Messianic signs, and no matter how much you protest, you haven’t been able to prove a damned thing. I suggest that instead of trying to prove that he isn’t the Messiah, you try to prove that he is, and see what you come up with.”
“I don’t see the difference,” said Moore.
“It’s a matter of approach,” explained Bernstein. “Take a cataleptic. Without a stethoscope or a fogging glass it can be pretty hard to prove that he’s alive. But stick him with a pin and watch the blood flow out of the wound, and it’s easy to prove that he’s not dead.”
“That’s a pretty weak example.”
“I’m not selling examples; I’m selling approaches. You have a certain amount of evidence before you, and you have been unable to prove that Jeremiah isn’t the Messiah—and believe me, your experts are going to confirm everything I’ve told you about mutation. Therefore, why not see if trying to prove that he is the Messiah works a little better?”
“That’s asinine,” said Moore.
“Have you got anything better to do with your time?”
“Lots,” said Moore. “But if it will finally shut you up about this Messiah crap, we’ll give it a try.”
He pressed an intercom button and told his secretary to have lunch for four sent into the office. Then he turned back to Bernstein.
“All right, Abe—what do we know about Jeremiah that leads us to think he’s the Messiah?”
“His name is Immanuel, he went to Egypt as a child, and he has resurrected the dead. That’s three-quarters of the signs right there.”
“Some resurrection,” snorted Moore. “What about his being from the Davidic line?”
“Who knows?” said Bernstein. “It’s possible.”
“Do you even know for a fact that David really lived?”
“There seems to be some historical evidence. But even if a man named David did not exist, that doesn’t alter anything.”
“Oh?” said Moore. “Why not?”
“Because we’re interested in the king that the Bible refers to as David, and personally, I don’t much give a damn whether his name was David or George or anything else. It’s just a symbol for the man. I’ll keep calling it the Davidic line because it’s a handy term, but when I use it I am referring to the bloodline that traces back to the man the Bible rightly or wrongly calls David.”
“Which doesn’t solve anything,” said Moore. “Your own rabbi said there would be four signs by which we’d recognize the Messiah. Even stretching the facts, we can only confirm three of them. And, as I recall it, he was supposed to establish a kingdom in Jerusalem. He hasn’t quite gotten around to that, has he, Abe?”
“Not yet,” said Bernstein.
“Then until he does, I guess the subject is closed.”
“I disagree,” said Moira.
“Another quarter heard from,” commented Moore wryly. “Okay, let’s get it all out now, and then maybe we can go back to doing something a little more practical.”
“All I did,” began Moira, “was follow Dr. Bernstein’s advice: I asked myself if I could disprove the assumption that Jeremiah was the Messiah. To do this, I had to prove that he hadn’t fulfilled what you claim are the vital prophecies. I know for a fact that the first three are true, so that left only the prophecy about the Davidic line.” She paused. “Now, obviously it can’t be proved either way, since no records go back more than a few hundred years—but that doesn’t mean that there isn’t another way to tackle the problem.”
“Such as?”
“If I am assuming that Jeremiah is the Messiah, I must therefore assume that he’s of the Davidic line, and then ask myself what logically follows.”
“And what does?” asked Moore.
“Well, if the Messiah is from the line of David, it seems logical to assume that the line has been kept alive all this time in order to produce him. This would mean that he is the only male in the world who traces directly to David. Now, what does this imply to you?”
“That you’re as crazy as Abe is,” said Moore.
“No, Mr. Moore,” said Moira. “It implies that if the Messiah is ever to be produced in accordance with the prophecies, Jeremiah cannot be killed. He almost died a few times of childhood diseases, but he always recovered—and your own men were also unable to destroy him.”
“Then you’re saying that he’ll manage to keep alive until he sires a male to succeed him in the line?” asked Moore.
“No, Mr. Moore. I’m saying that Jeremiah himself is the Messiah.”
“Why?”
“Because Jeremiah had a vasectomy two years ago. The line ends with him.”
“By God, she’s right, Solomon!” exclaimed Bernstein.
“Not so fast,” said Moore. He turned back to Moira. “What if Jeremiah isn’t the only direct descendant of David? What if there are fifty of them?”
“Then why couldn’t you kill him?” responded Moira. “If he defies all the laws of chance and nature, there must be a re
ason. I’ve offered mine, Mr. Moore; do you have a better one?”
“Not at the moment,” admitted Moore grudgingly, as a cart with four meals was wheeled into the office.
And, thirty hours later, when every biologist had confirmed what Bernstein had told him, he still didn’t have a better answer.
Chapter 13
Moore gradually became aware of a persistent buzzing on his nightstand.
Finally he threw the covers off and groped blindly for the phone.
“Yeah?” he muttered at last.
“I’m at the office. You’d better get down here right away.”
“Who is this?”
“Ben.”
“What’s up?”
“Moira’s flown the coop.”
“I’m on my way,” said Moore.
It took him five minutes to get dressed. Then, accompanied by his bodyguards, he left his apartment and headed to the office, arriving just before sunrise.
Pryor was waiting for him, a note in his hand.
“From her?” asked Moore, taking the folded piece of paper.
Pryor nodded, and he opened it up and read it.
Dear Mr. Moore:
Facts are facts. If you don’t want to recognize them, that’s your problem.
Mine is surviving, so I’m joining the side that seems to afford me the best opportunity of so doing.
Moira Rallings
PS: If you kill him, which I personally consider impossible, you still owe me his body.
“That’s what I like,” said Moore dryly. “Loyalty in an employee. How long ago did you find this thing?”
“About two minutes before I called you,” said Pryor. “Naomi and I are … ah … no longer roommates, and I’ve spent the last couple of nights here.”
“I know where you’ve been spending them,” replied Moore curtly. He tossed the note onto his desk. “We’d better move fast on this thing. I want that girl dead or alive, but mainly I want her before she can contact Jeremiah.”
“We can’t find him. What makes you think she can?”
“Things have a way of working out for that bastard,” said Moore. “I think we’d better always assume the worst when dealing with him.” He turned to Pryor. “Which reminds me: how’s your loyalty holding up these days?”
