by Allen Steele
Grey hadn’t had anything to eat. He’d left the hostel almost as soon as the sun had come up, and by late morning his stomach was growling. The demonstration wasn’t to begin for another hour, though, so he’d decided to take care of his hunger. He’d spotted a small cafe down the street from the jail, and it was there that he went to grab a quick breakfast. Two scrambled eggs and a cup of coffee later, he returned to his post, and it was then and there that he saw someone he’d thought—and hoped—he’d never see again.
The Reverend Alberto Cosenza stood outside the jail, his black suit lending him the appearance of a raven. Speaking to a young woman holding a pad, his back was half-turned toward the street. Cosenza glanced over his shoulder at Rice as he approached; apparently dismissing him as a passerby, he turned back to the woman…then he did a double take, his eyes widening in recognition.
“Reverend Rice?” he asked. “Is that you?”
“Yes, it is…although the title no longer applies.” Grey tried to smile, but found that he couldn’t. “Good to see you again,” he added, as cordially as possible.
Curious, the woman moved a little closer, yet Cosenza didn’t appear as if he wanted to share this exchange with her. “I think that’ll be all,” he said. “Is there’s anything further you’d like to ask?”
“No…no, that’s enough for now.” She switched off her pad, put it back in her pocket. “Thank you for your time, Reverend.” He nodded, and she walked away; Grey noticed that the proctor standing nearby allowed her to pass through the fence gate.
“Press,” Cosenza murmured, watching her go. “Reporter for a news service back on Earth. She showed up the same time I did, with President Montero.”
“Carlos Montero is here?” Now it was Grey’s turn to be surprised. He glanced at the front door of the jail. “I didn’t see him when I was here just a little…”
He stopped himself, but that was enough to raise Cosenza’s attention. “You’ve been here already?” he asked, and Grey reluctantly nodded. “Why?”
No point in lying. “I’m with the relief effort from Carlos’s Pizza. When the chaaz’maha was arrested, I came over to…”
“Oh, dear God.” Horrified, Cosenza stared at the former minister. “Grey, you don’t mean to tell me you’re…that you’re following this false prophet, do you?”
Grey felt his face grow warm, yet he refused to look away. “He’s not a prophet, Rever…Alberto.” Cosenza’s eyes narrowed at the sound of his first name; he was not accustomed to junior clergymen addressing him with such familiarity, even those who’d left the Church. “I don’t think he even considers himself to be particularly holy. He’s a spiritual teacher, that’s all.”
“Do you know what you’re saying?” A vein throbbed at Cosenza’s temple; the older man was struggling to keep his temper in check. “Grey, you know even more about this than I do. You’ve met those damned aliens. You’ve heard their godless immorality…”
“Godless, yes…or at least the way you define God.” Grey shook his head. “Immoral, no. But you’re right about one thing…I do know more about Sa’Tong than you do. I’ve listened to the chaaz’maha, I’ve studied the Sa’Tong-tas, and I’ve come to the conclusion that theirs is a better…”
“Hush!” Cosenza angrily held up a hand. “Be quiet!” He let out his breath as a frustrated sigh. “Grey, I…I can’t tell you how much I’m disappointed in you. I know you’ve suffered a crisis of faith, but I would’ve never thought…never even dreamed…that you’d fallen so far.”
Despite himself, Grey found a certain satisfaction in being able to irritate Cosenza so easily. “I’d already fallen, Alberto. After I left the pulpit, I was a lost man. But the chaaz’maha helped me find myself again…not through piety, but by teaching me that the way we worship others, and not some invisible entity, is more important than all the empty words and rituals…”
Cosenza’s hand darted forward, an attempt to slap Rice across the face. Rice saw it coming; he didn’t quite know how, except perhaps the time he’d spent with the chaaz’maha had taught him something about anticipating the actions of others. He stepped back before the deacon’s palm could connect with his cheek, causing Cosenza to lose his balance and fall forward. As Rice caught him in his arms, the nearby proctor hurried forward.
“Reverend,” he said, laying a hand on Cosenza’s shoulder, “I’m sorry, but you’re under…”
“Please, no, don’t do that.” Still holding Cosenza, Rice helped the older man steady himself. “Just a minor misunderstanding, that’s all. He didn’t mean any…”
“Get away from me!” Cosenza’s voice was a harsh croak as he yanked himself away from Rice. “I’ll have nothing more to do with you! And once I return to Earth, I’ll see to it that you’re excommunicated!”
At one time, Rice would have been reduced to begging forgiveness. And even now, if only for a moment, he felt a cold hand grip the pit of his stomach. But the sensation quickly passed, to be replaced by something else: the peace of mind that comes with learning to live without fear, along with pity for the angry old man who glowered at him.
“If you must,” he said. “It doesn’t matter to me.”
Cosenza’s mouth fell open. For a second, it seemed as if he was having trouble breathing. “You’ll go to Hell for…”
“Hardly the act of a loving and merciful God, is it?” Amused, Rice gently smiled. “In fact, I have to say, any religion that keeps its supplicants in line with threats of banishment to a nonexistent place is not one to which I’d choose to belong.”
But Cosenza was no longer listening. Turning his back on Rice, he stalked away from the jail. Rice watched him go and shook his head. How odd that he’d once been intimidated by the poor gent. If only…
From behind him, he suddenly heard something new: a chorus of voices, chanting the chaaz’maha’s name. Looking around, he saw that, unnoticed until that moment, a large crowd was gathered on the other side of the torii. Several hundred refugees, led by his fellow relief workers, had arrived to begin their rally.
Rice grinned, raised his hand to wave to them. If there was, indeed, such a thing as Hell, then the Reverend Alberto Cosenza was hearing the tolling of its bells.
FORMER COYOTE PRESIDENT MEETS WITH SPIRITUAL LEADER
Carlos Montero, the former president of the Coyote Federation, met today with Hawk Thompson, the spiritual leader of a group that has embraced the alien philosophy of Sa’Tong, at the jail in New Brighton where Thompson is being held.
Authorities said that the meeting was private and was arranged at President Montero’s request. Thompson, who calls himself the “chaaz’maha,” is the former president’s nephew, which proctors say is the principal reason President Montero asked to see him. Only Thompson’s parole officer was present during the meeting.
While the meeting was taking place, an estimated crowd of four hundred held a protest rally near the jail. The demonstration was organized by relief workers from the nearby refugee camp and was comprised of newly arrived immigrants from Earth. The protest was nonviolent, and authorities say that no arrests were made…
The jail had a small interrogation room, with a door that locked from the outside and a reflective one-way window in one of its cinder-block walls. It wasn’t the most comfortable place for Carlos to visit his nephew, but it was the best compromise he had been able to work out with the chief proctor. Although Hawk’s parole officer was the only other person in the room, Carlos was all too aware that the chief was probably watching them from the other side of the window.
Joe Bairns had warned Carlos that Hawk had changed since the last time he’d seen him. Nonetheless, he was stunned when his nephew was led into the room. It wasn’t just the shaved head or the odd tattoo on his brow, though, but also the look in his eyes. Where there had once been a detached and emotionally repressed void was now utter serenity, an implacable calm that was almost eerie. Despite the fact that his wrists were held together by magnetic cuffs, Hawk was at ease w
ith himself and everyone around him; when he saw Carlos sitting at the table, his face broke into a welcoming smile.
“Uncle Carlos…what a pleasant surprise!” He radiated warmth as he ambled toward the empty chair on the other side of the table. “Good to see you again. I hope you had a good trip.”
“Uhh…yes, I did, thank you.” Carlos glanced at Bairns, who stood against a wall near the table. Although his arms were folded together against his chest, the parole officer’s right hand wasn’t far from the holstered stun gun on his belt. Bairns said nothing, and his expression remained neutral. “Joe, I don’t think he’s going to need…”
“Sorry, Mr. President.” Bairns shook his head. “Rules say that all prisoners must be secured when they’re outside their cells. No exceptions.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Hawk sat down. “They’re not uncomfortable…at least, not very…and if my wearing them makes everyone feel safer…”
He shrugged, then leaned back in his chair, patiently waiting for his uncle to go on. Never once did his steady gaze depart from Carlos’s face. “Yes, well…” Carlos tried to find the right thing to say. “Are you…?”
“Being treated well? Yes, or at least as much as circumstances will allow. One of the trustees is an old acquaintance. He just brought me lunch, so I’ve had something to eat.” Hawk glanced at Bairns. “Thank David for me, will you? And tell him that I enjoyed our chat, and hope to talk with him again soon.”
Bairns’s lips pursed together, and even Carlos was taken aback. He’d learned that one of the trustees was the same individual whom Hawk had helped apprehend last year. The proctors had apparently forgotten that fact until after Laird entered the cell block, but by then it was too late to keep him away from Hawk. Yet his nephew didn’t seem to mind, and Laird himself had stormed out a few minutes later, visibly upset by something that had been said between them.
“We’ll…be sure to do that.” Carlos hesitated, then went on. “Hawk…”
“Chaaz’maha, please.” His nephew shook his head. “As Joe has doubtless told you already, I no longer go by my old name.”
“Yes, he has…but it’s not the chaaz’maha who jumped parole, but Hawk Thompson. That’s the person who’s been arrested.”
“I understand that…or at least I acknowledge it. But what you must understand as well is that I’m no longer the man I used to be.” As before, the chaaz’maha’s voice remained calm, his gaze unwavering. “If the purpose of my parole was for me to atone for the things I did when I was younger, don’t you think I’ve done that already?”
“Your parole was…” Bairns began.
“Years away from being served out, yes. But, Joe…do you really think I was doing society much good by working as a customs inspector? Do you honestly believe that wearing a patch and a bracelet was making me a better person?” He shook his head. “In the short time that I’ve been the chaaz’maha, I’ve accomplished more than in all the months I spent behind a desk. Perhaps it’s a rather unconventional means of making amends, but it’s in keeping with the Fifth Codicil of Sa’Tong.”
“Is that why you came back?” Carlos asked, and the chaaz’maha nodded. “You knew you were wanted by the law. To tell the truth, we had no idea where you were. You could have stayed away, but instead…”
“I chose to return because this is where I’m needed. Caring for others is far more important than my personal freedom.” Again, a dismissive shrug. “The Sa’Tong-tas teaches us that all risk is acceptable…even necessary…when the cause is worthy enough.”
“The Sa’Tong-tas…that was the object Taf gave you when we met him at the spaceport, wasn’t it?” The chaaz’maha nodded again, and Carlos searched his memory. “He called it a book. ‘Speak to it, and it will speak to you’…”
“That is what I did.” An ironic smile. “I know now that it was only fortuitous that I happened to be the one who received it. Taf could have just as easily given it to you, or a blueshirt, or a gyro pilot, or anyone else he happened to encounter that day. But another person might not have known what to do with it, or only treated it as a trinket…no offense intended.”
“None taken. Go on…You took it home, and you…”
“I spoke to it, and it spoke to me.” The chaaz’maha sighed as he folded his manacled hands together in his lap. “It’s hard to describe what happened that night. The Sa’Tong-tas told me things that were so obvious but hadn’t occurred to me before. Not only did I learn who I was, but also who I could be…but even then, I didn’t have all the answers, and I knew I couldn’t get them if I stayed here.” He looked at Bairns. “As I said, that was why I had to leave. I acknowledge that what I did was against the law…but it wasn’t wrong.”
Bairns didn’t respond except to shake his head ever so slightly. “The Sa’Tong-tas,” Carlos continued. “Where is it now? Do you have it?”
The chaaz’maha shook his head. “No. I decided that it was too valuable to carry around with me, so I left it in a place where I know it’ll be safe. But before I did, a friend of mine and I transcribed its teachings and loaded them into my pad. Since then, I’ve copied it into other pads whenever possible, and encouraged those who’ve received it to do the same. I estimate I’ve done this”—he thought for a moment—“at least a hundred times now, and I can only imagine how many more times it’s been copied since then.”
Bairns shut his eyes. “Oh, my god…”
“Yes, exactly…although perhaps not the way you mean.” A quiet laugh, then he became serious again. “You must believe me when I say that there’s nothing to be afraid of, or that I wouldn’t have done this if I even suspected that it might be harmful. Sa’Tong isn’t a religion…I can’t repeat that often enough…but instead a way of looking at ourselves and our relationship with the universe. One of my students tells me that it’s actually a rather old way…just one that has been neglected for so long that it’s been almost forgotten.”
Carlos nodded. “So you’re not trying to be a prophet or a messiah…”
“No.” His nephew shook his head. “Merely a teacher, that’s all. Even the role of being a leader is uncomfortable, although I’ve found it necessary to take it up.”
“I’ve seen the work you’ve done in the refugee camp. I have to admit, it’s impressive.” The chaaz’maha accepted the compliment with a faint smile, and Carlos let out his breath. “You know, of course, that your arrest has upset quite a few of your followers…”
“I prefer to think of them as my students…but yes, I heard the demonstration from my cell. You needn’t worry about them. If they abide by the Sa’Tong…and I have little doubt that they will…then their protest will be nonviolent.” He paused. “But I wouldn’t ignore them if I were you. There are ways of fighting injustice that are far more effective than throwing a fist or a stone.”
“He’s right,” Bairns said quietly. “I hate to admit it, but there are almost as many people in the camp as there are here in town…many more than the proctors and militia can control. Even if they do nothing more than refuse to cooperate…”
“Exactly.” The chaaz’maha smiled. “Protest is only the first step. Civil disobedience is the next. And if the authorities were to use aggressive measures…”
“No.” Carlos sighed, shook his head. “I don’t want to see it come to that either.” He looked at Bairns, and the parole officer nodded in agreement. Carlos glanced at the one-way glass, hoping that the chief proctor was listening and had comprehended the situation as well. “Well…that brings us back to you, doesn’t it? Keeping you here just invites trouble…but the fact remains that you broke the law, even if it was for what you consider to be good reasons.”
“‘There is a difference between law and justice. They are not always the same thing.’” The chaaz’maha grinned. “That’s from the Sa’Tong-tas.”
“Yes, well…the magistrates might not see things the same way you do.” Carlos frowned as a new thought occurred to him. “Of course, I could put in a g
ood word for you, if I was sure that you mean no harm. The fact that you’ve organized a relief effort will probably go a long way. But even if I was able to have you released, I doubt they’ll simply let you go back to what you were doing. They’d want some assurance that you’d be under control, or at least some form of supervision…”
“If you mean returning to the conditions of my parole”—the chaaz’maha frowned—“no. I’m sorry, but I must refuse. I will not wear a patch or a bracelet again. That would only mean that I’d become Hawk Thompson once more. And as I said, that person is no longer who I am.”
“Was it really so bad?” Bairns asked.
The chaaz’maha said nothing, but only regarded him with sadness until Bairns looked away. “I understand,” Carlos said. “And I suppose I agree. But there must be some way we can…”
“You know how.” The chaaz’maha gazed deep into his eyes. “‘The solution to one problem can often be the solution to another.’ Something else Sa’Tong teaches us…do you know what I mean?”
Carlos understood…and suddenly, a new thought occurred to him, one that seemed so far-fetched as to seem implausible, but nonetheless had a strange logic of its own.
“Yes…yes, I think I do.” He hesitated. “Would you be willing to take another trip? A rather long one, I’m afraid, but…we may both find it useful.”
Bairns stared at him. “Where? New Florida?”
“No.” Carlos found himself smiling. “Much farther than that, I think.”
SPIRITUAL LEADER RELEASED
Hawk Thompson, the leader of a spiritual group devoted to an extraterrestrial philosophy, was released from jail in New Brighton following a private meeting with his uncle, former Coyote Federation president Carlos Montero.
