by Mick Farren
"Except this is no divine comedy."
"That's a fact. What do you think these kids did to qualify for such a treat?"
"Who the hell knows? Probably turned in their teacher to the deacons."
A boss was looking in their direction, and they quickly shut up. Ravel was a convicted porno dealer and comparatively new to Joshua. He was still a little too fond of taking chances for his own good. Sooner or later, they would break him in the bunker.
Even when the Young Crusaders had gone and the inmates were finally returned to their blocks, they still were not left alone. The TV monitor was blaring, relaying the Alien Proverb rally from Madison Square Garden. There was no way either to shut it off or even to turn down the volume. At first, the prisoners in D block sat sullenly on their bunks staring at the raucous TV, taking minimal consolation in the fact that they were sitting down and not being marched anywhere or harangued by the guards. After a while, though, they started to sit up and take notice. Something weird was happening on the screen. Proverb was completely deviating from tike normal routine of the TV preacher. He actually seemed to be issuing a direct challenge to the Faithful establishment, as good as calling the president and his people crooks and charlatans and promising a cleansing of the temple. And then the screen went blank. Someone had decided that Proverb needed to be censored. The only question was whether that censorship was confined to the camp, or if the plugs had been pulled on him all across the country.
After five minutes of silence and a blank screen, the TV flickered and a Danny & Crank cartoon appeared. Under the cover of the noisy audio, Ravel ventured the first comment.
"Looks to me like the Reverend Proverb might be joining us all in the quite near future."
Carlisle
Harry Carlisle positioned himself near one of the exits. If anyone had been intending to kill Proverb, he would have done it by now. The show was winding toward its grand finale. All he wanted to do was to get out of this madhouse as soon as possible. Proverb was going for broke, and Carlisle did not want to be around when things started getting broken. His cop's instinct told him that something bad was going to happen. Bad invariably put the PD right in the line of fire. He had no clear idea of how it was going to go down, but however and whenever, he intended to stay out from under. He had been detailed to stop an assassin. The assassin had failed to show, and when Proverb's act was through, Carlisle would be signing off. He wanted no part of what might come later. He would not put it past the deacons to be stupid enough to try to bust Proverb on the spot. He had heard that most of the deke brass were up in the VIP lounge. On a much more mundane level, he would also prefer to be long gone when the true believers came streaming out and hit the streets around the Garden, loaded to the gills on A-wave and audivid.
He had plenty to think about. When that phrase had come up, it had completely thrown him. "There will be a cleansing of the temple." First Dreisler, and then Alien Proverb. His cop's instinct would not swallow coincidence. It was a sign, a signal, a code. It was a secret, maybe even a conspiracy. It went even deeper. He was certain that, whatever it was, Dreisler was trying to pull him into it. That on its own scared the hell out of him.
Mansard
They were coming up to the reprise of Revelations 9 and the final set piece. It was getting to be hard going. Despite the double glazing in the control booth, he could feel that the juiced waves from the stage were getting to him. He was having trouble maintaining control of the second eyes. The bright electronic landscape wavered and slid. At the periphery, it was breaking down into hilly undulations. He was becoming very much aware of the close promixity of the big audio net. He was even having trouble focusing his physical eyes. It was like being drunk but with none of the relaxation. He was well aware that he had, at a number of points in the show, pushed the effects much closer to the limits than he had intended. As far as he was concerned, Proverb had gone recklessly hog wild in his use of the hypnotics. Mansard, protected by two layers of armored glass, was being seriously hindered by them. Out in the auditorium, the crowd had to be plain crazy.
"Precue Rev nine reprise."
Mansard pulled what remained of his senses together. It was the final haul.
"On precue. Fading to black."
He pulled the hellfire to his fingertips. The monster shapes were parked in the mid-distance of the second eyes' landscape. He was ready. And as soon as this was over, he could throw on the Horsemen program and let it rip.
"Last set is down. Cue on my mark."
Mansard tensed.
"Three… two… one… mark!"
Speedboat
The bloodred fire was creeping down the wall. Purple flames leapt up behind the dark figure of Proverb. They were back in a rerun of the opening horror show. The ghosts were starting to crowd the aisles, and the hologram monsters stalked the artificial gloom. The wraparound electronic choir filled the air with its voices.
"Come not Lucifer!"
"Come not Lucifer!"
"Come not Lucifer!"
The crowd was beyond nuts. Some danced, loose-limbed, heads lolling, eyes unfocused, apparently unaware of the light and sound effects that swirled around them. Others sagged back in their seats, staring openmouthed, awed into limp submission. Still more went to the opposite extreme and lost themselves in deep-seated hellfear. They moaned and screamed. They wrung their hands and clutched for religious charms and tokens. For them, the special effects had become horribly real. A knot of Elvi held up their blue globes as if they believed that some inner magic would keep the devil at bay.
"Come not Lucifer!"
"Come not Lucifer!"
"Come not Lucifer!"
Speedboat glanced down at a woman next to him. She had sunk to her knees, sobbing and covering her face. Her body was racked with spasms, and she pleaded with the demons that she so obviously believed had come to get her.
"No, please, not me. I've lived a good life. Don't take me. Please don't take me!"
Speedboat held out a hand. "It's okay lady. Nothing's going to get you. It's only a show."
Speedboat could not have received a more hostile reception if he had exposed himself. She recoiled from his hand as if it were a striking snake and started to back away from him, scrabbling sideways on all fours with a contorted, crablike motion and making terrified mewing sounds. Her pantihose were ripped, her makeup was streaked and smeared, and her beehive hairdo had fallen into straggling disrepair.
Speedboat held up his hands. "Okay, okay. I was only trying to help."
He had seen enough freakouts in his time, but this had to beat all. The crowd itself had started to resemble extras in a scene from the Inferno. A gaping death's head hologram passed right through him, and he felt a shuddering chill. The icebergs had to be wearing off.
"Come not Lucifer!"
"Come not Lucifer!"
"Come not Lucifer!"
He started easing back through the disorganized throng. He wanted to get as far as he could from the stage and its A-wave pushers. He also started looking around, trying to figure out the easiest way to reach the backstage area after all the craziness was over. He had retreated about half way up the main floor when everything abruptly changed. A high, melodic tone, like a sudden breath of ice-cold air, cut through the 'Come not Lucifer' chorus. The flames and demons faded into the darkness, and a single, intense white light grew on the stage. It was as if Proverb himself had become white hot. The light expanded into a single, blinding horizontal band. Proverb's voice rolled through the Garden as if carving the words on stone.
"Lucifer shall not come. He has no dominion over the children of the living God!"
It was like the sun coming up. Even Speedboat had to stand and stare. The choir's harmonics went straight up to heaven. Golden light streamed from Proverb, its warmth melting away the audience's previous hysteria. The music was climbing to a final crescendo.
"Go forth and rejoice. The day is at hand. Go forth and rejoice. There will be a cleansin
g of the temple. "
The lights on the stage slowly went down. The show was over. The house lights had not yet come up, but a lot of the crowd were starting to gather themselves together to face the real world. Then a strange rhythm started. At first it was just a feeling, low and indistinct, but it quickly gathered momentum. It was the hubbub of thousands of whispering voices.
"Go outside, look to the skies."
"Go outside, look: to the skies."
The audience was picking up the cadence.
"Go outside, look to the skies."
"Go outside, look to the skies."
They were marching to the exits with a dogged, shell-shocked determination. They really believed that their day was at hand.
Mansard
He let out a long, heartfelt sigh, pulled off his headset, and slumped back into the chair. He felt like a pilot who had just flown around the world single-handed. He lay for almost a minute with his eyes closed, then reached up and gingerly eased the plugs from the DNI receptors in his neck. The physical world took back his senses. Sweat was running down his face, and his shirt was soaked. The light seemed unnaturally bright, and the roar of voices around him seemed deafening. People were slapping him on the back and applauding. He smiled automatically.
"I think we hit them where they live."
There was a red light flashing on the board in front of him. He picked up the headset again and put it to his ear. The voice of Jimmy Gadd came through loud and clear.
"Ready to go with the Horsemen when you are."
"Everything checks out? "
"Perfect."
"You're sure?"
"Sure, I'm sure. It's perfect."
"How's the weather?"
"Perfect."
"Is the crowd out on the street yet?"
"The first ones are coming out now."
"What's the status on the streetlights?"
"The Con Ed guy got the envelope, and there ain't one alight for three blocks in any direction."
"Traffic?"
"Eighth Avenue diverted from Twenty-third up to Thirty-eighth. Seventh Avenue is normal. We're going to have to live with that. It doesn't really matter though. Most of the light from the traffic is blocked by the Penn Plaza Tower."
"So we got about as much as we could have hoped for?"
"We did pretty damn good."
"Okay, so give it a fifteen count and let the Horsemen ride. If they don't push things over the edge, nothing will."
Someone had put a drink in front of him.
SIX
Carlisle
He ran the tracy on his wrist through a quick function check. The screen was still distorting, but the communicator was working again. Outside the auditorium, in one of the tunnels that led to the street, there was enough protection from the storm of leakage that was coming from the stage to allow the audio to function. He touched the send stem.
"Carlisle here. Control, do you copy?"
"Opcon here. We copy you, Lieutenant, but no visual."
"I know that. It's the best I can do."
"Audio loud and clear."
"So listen, the Alien Proverb show is over. There have been no incidents. I am signing out and returning to Astor Place."
"We've logged that. What about the rest of the team?"
"They're off the air until they move away from Proverb's special effects. You'll just have to pick them up individually as they come out. Tell them to regroup downtown. I've had enough of this bullshit. The damned A-waves have given me a headache."
"Ten four, Lieutenant."
"Yeah."
He closed the channel. Harry Carlisle was in a foul temper. What had all the paranoia been about? Was it celebrity chic to imagine death threats? He felt that he and his men had yet again been used, and he fully intended to stop at a bar before he returned to Astor Place.
The street door led out onto Eighth Avenue. Carlisle's temper was not improved by his discovery that the street lamps were out. It was a hell of a time for a power failure. Or was it a power failure? It was certainly limited. From the corner of Thirty-third Street, he could see the Empire State Building, shining in its halo of cloud, just blocks away. He could also see that the traffic was not running. People were strolling along the empty expanse of the avenue. What the hell was going on? He looked around. There were plenty of cops about, but they seemed to be standing in tight watchful groups, certainly not deployed to handle the crowd that would be coming out of the Garden at any minute. They had the look of men who were waiting for an order. He walked over to the nearest group and flashed his badge.
"What happened to the lights?" he asked.
"It's all part of the show."
"What show?"
The patrolman was inscrutable behind his armored visor. His name tag read 'Rennweiler'. He imperceptibly jerked his shoulders. "You better talk to the sergeant."
"At any minute, thousands of these fools will come streaming out of the Garden, twisted out of shape on A-waves, and find themselves in total darkness. "
"Really, Lieutenant, you'd better talk to the sergeant."
"Where is he?"
"He's here someplace. I'm not sure exactly where. It's hard to keep track in the dark."
Carlisle knew that he was getting the uniformed run-around. He looked about for someone in authority but failed to see any stripes or gold braid. The first of the Proverb audience had begun to emerge from the exits. He shook his head, trying to clear it. Oh, Christ, they were chanting something. What was it they were saying? It sounded like 'Go outside, look to the skies'. They were crazier than he had thought.
They were spilling out of the exits in earnest. The chanting could be heard coming from those who were still inside, but once they reached the sidewalk, the cohesion faltered. They seemed to become confused. They walked aimlessly, turning and peering upward, spreading out over the closed-off width of Eighth Avenue. Only a handful seemed to be going for their cars or turning for the subway. By far the majority seemed to be holding on, waiting for something to happen. The squads of uniforms were not doing anything. It was insane. The way things were being handled went against all the most basic rules of crowd control. In a situation like this it was a matter of get 'em out and get 'em gone.
A crowd could never be allowed to linger after any event, and that went double when the event had been as emotionally charged as this one. He was starting to suspect that someone had failed to tell him something. What did that jiveass Rennweiler mean by 'it's all part of the show'?
Then it started.
They simply glimmered into silent life, like apparitions from another dimension. There was a conceited gasp from the crowd on the street. The things were huge. At first, Carlisle was too close to the building to be able to see them. With a host of other people, he hurried across the sidewalk and out onto the avenue. When he turned and looked, he was instantly rooted to the spot.
"God almighty!"
The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, maybe a hundred feet high, were charging across the city. War, Famine, Pestilence, and Death, armor gleaming, spear raised, scythe swinging. They seemed to be galloping full tilt for the Hudson, New Jersey, and the rest of America. Fire burned from the horses' nostrils, and sparks flew from the giant hooves. The Horsemen's eyes were hidden beneath cowl, behind visor, or in the dark hollows of black skull sockets. Their spectral images were reflected over and over in the curtain glass of the neighboring towers. Even though Harry knew it was all an electronic illusion, the first sight took his breath away. It was magnificent.
It was also an explosive situation. All around him, those who were not simply standing and staring as he was were dropping to their knees in prayer. Many were walking backward, gazing up, transfixed. Someone had started shouting.
"The day has come!"
Others took up the cry.
"The day has come!"
"The day has come!"
Carlisle was very much aware that word would soon be spreading across the ci
ty about the vision above the Garden as people saw it from their windows and started to call friends. It was possible that literally millions of people would soon be converging on the area. Just a few blocks downtown, the burned and blackened buildings that had been torched in the recent bread riot stood as testimony to a crowd's madness. He opened a channel on the tracy.
"This is Carlisle. I'm on Eighth Avenue, outside the building. Do you know what's going on out here?"
"This is opcon. What is going on out there, Lieutenant?"
"There's a hundred-foot-high hologram on the top of the building."
"The Four Horsemen, right?"
"That's right. The goddamn Horsemen. Why wasn't I told about any of this?"
The tracy was now working perfectly. The opcon operator on the small screen shrugged.
"Don't ask me, Lieutenant. I just work here. Maybe someone didn't think it was your territory."
"But who sanctioned this damned thing? It could start a riot."
"I don't know, Lieutenant. I heard the deacons approved it."
"Can you patch me through to Captain Parnell?"
The operator shook his head. "I can't, Lieutenant. He went into the auditorium just before the end of the show. He's still off the air."
"Goddamn it."
"I 'm sorry, Lieutenant."
Carlisle knew that he was helpless. He spotted a sergeant with a squad of uniforms. The sergeant's name tag read 'Muncie', and he looked as if a conversation with a lieutenant of detectives was the very last thing he wanted. Carlisle didn't give a damn. He had had enough of closed-minded departmentalization. He glanced pointedly at the huge hologram images. "This could easily come unhinged."
"Tell me about it, but we've got orders from the brass to let it happen."
"And you're just following orders?"
"You said it, Lieutenant, not me. Get me some new orders and I'll move them out of here and get the traffic running. Until then, I'm not offering up my ass for sacrifice."
Carlisle sighed. "I hear you."
