“No, sir.”
“In any event, Culpepper isn’t around anymore, so whatever I say goes. And I want Doctrine & Faith to handle the UWW from now on. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.” Some of the haughtiness was melting, from the application of heat.
“Do you think anyone important escaped?” Styx asked. He looked sidelong at a newly placed photograph on the wall, showing the destruction of Monte Konos in full color, with the top of the mountain afire like a volcano. It was a spectacular scene.
“Hard to say,” Branson responded. “Hopefully, it was just some low-level people who took the aircraft in the heat of battle, saving their own skins.”
“That might have happened, and in such an eventuality we’d have little to worry about, wouldn’t you agree? Guards—or other “low-levels” as you say—would probably ditch the aircraft at the first opportunity and be happy to escape with their lives.”
“That would seem likely.”
“Such people would not be likely to reorganize the UWW, would they?”
“No.”
“So, do you think the UWW is dead, a flopping, useless body without a head?”
“One would hope so.”
“But what do you think?”
“There aren’t enough facts at this point, sir. I can’t make an intelligent call.”
“But what do you feel in your guts? What instincts do you have?”
“I only operate on facts, sir.”
“And that’s why you’ll never sit in my chair, Kylee.”
Branson looked shocked. He straightened himself. “Will that be all, sir?”
“That’s all.” His tone became saccharine. “Now, if it isn’t too much trouble, Kylee, I’d appreciate it if you would get the—” He bit his lower lip to keep from swearing. “Just get out of my sight, OK?”
Chapter 7
You are our shelter, and we are yours.
—From the Gospel of Veronica
“What’s that noise?” Dixie Lou asked, as they stepped out of the tent. “Sounds like an engine.”
“Seems to be coming from over there,” Tamara Himmel said, pointing across the roofs and black tent tops of the village.
“Just one of our generators,” Malia said, lying, “at the caretaker’s residence, by Prophet’s Rock.”
“Sounds bigger than that,” Dixie Lou said. “An airplane, maybe, or a helicopter?” She looked at the cerulean blue sky, saw nothing but thin, drifting clouds.
“No, it’s just our fancy new generator. I told you, we have the latest technology around here. Come, I will show you our advanced computer center.”
As Dixie Lou and her companions followed Malia past dusty tents and simple structures, worries floated through the Chairwoman’s mind, as they often did. She wondered if this was just a delaying trick, while Arab men—BOI agents?—were taking over her own camp at that very moment, murdering Alex, the she-apostles, and everyone there. She also worried about the whereabouts and fate of Lori Vale.
Dixie Lou heaved a deep sigh. The child of Lori . . . would it really be the missing twelfth she-apostle? She hated this situation, which was so much out of her control. Her thoughts shifted to another priority. Too many of them.
The Holy Women’s Bible.
Malia led the way into the most substantial structure in the town, a one-story, modular building that was at least twice as big as the tent in which they had all dined. They went through one doorway and then another, with doors closing behind them as they entered. Dixie Lou heard fans whirring, and the drone of a generator as it kicked on.
They entered a central room, and for a moment Dixie Lou caught her breath. Banks of computers and related equipment lined the walls and the center of the room. Arab women and young men busied themselves operating the machines.
“And now,” Malia said, as she paused at one of the terminals, “if you would hand me the microcylinder, I would be most happy to transmit it, as you specify.”
“I prefer to do it myself,” Dixie Lou said, trying not to reveal too much concern or emotion.
“As you wish. I will prepare the machine.”
As Malia got the computer going, Nancy Winters leaned close to Dixie Lou and whispered, “I don’t think we should do this. Not enough security.”
The stocky black woman shook her head. Moving away from the Arabs for privacy, she said, “Our options are limited. We need to make every effort to publish the Holy Women’s Bible, improving our odds. Any delay is dangerous, and foolhardy.”
“This course of action is foolhardy,” Winters said.
“You dare speak to me that way?”
“These are trying times.”
With fervor, Dixie Lou responded, her voice an angry whisper. “Remember the way it was for the she-apostles in ancient times. Their gospels had to be concealed from those who would destroy them, but the precious written words were found and destroyed anyway, except for the copies that were hidden by brave women. It’s like that now. We’re hiding copies of the sacred gospels until they can be widely disseminated, and our copies are in danger of discovery and destruction. Women have been given a second chance now, and there might not be another.”
“But the transmission could be intercepted, cut off without our knowledge. We might be attacked. BOI forces are everywhere, maybe only minutes away.” She paused, looked around. “Maybe in this very room.”
At the moment, Dixie Lou didn’t like her options. But she had to take any opportunity to transmit, no matter the risk. If the new holy book succeeded, she would ride the wave of popularity with it; but if the reverse happened, if it was ridiculed and debunked, she would go down with it.
Glaring sidelong at the councilwoman, Dixie Lou said, “Amy would agree with me, and you know it.”
The slender woman bristled, and her large eyes opened wide. “I don’t know that at all! If we risk an unsafe transmission, the she-apostles could be killed! Think about that, Madame Chairwoman!”
Taking notice of the argument, Malia stared at them, a quizzical expression on her face. She was beyond earshot. Her computer beeped, and she looked back at it.
Dixie Lou whispered, “Don’t argue with me about this, Nancy. We publish the book now, and that’s it!”
Dixie Lou’s fingers tightened around the microcylinder. The Holy Women’s Bible—flawed though it was by the fake Gospel of Martha—could solve one of the outstanding problems. Perhaps its publication would draw the missing she-apostle out.
But that could have potentially dangerous ramifications, she realized. Uncertainty threatened to paralyze her. For some time now the Chairwoman had tried to envision the various scenarios in detail, and had realized that certain decisions she made were not entirely logical. Instead, they were based upon visceral feelings, or upon some internal driving force . . . neither of which could be explained to the logical side of her brain . . . or to any other person.
Her decision to falsify one of the gospels and rush publication might still be reversed. Even if Malia’s computer could connect to the Internet, Dixie Lou didn’t have to transmit. She could suppress what she had, and perhaps correct the text of the holy book later if the authentic last she-apostle ever showed up.
She wondered if the troublesome Katherine Pangalos might have been right after all . . . her assertion that the falsified Gospel of Martha could bring the entire Holy Women’s Bible into question. One lie, as all good interrogators knew, suggested a string of them. Should Dixie Lou edit the material before transmitting it, making changes to the introduction and deleting every reference to Martha? Go with eleven gospels, not twelve? But something—the visceral feeling or an internal driving force—told her not to do this, that she should transmit as is, if she could. Too many things might go wrong if she delayed. The material might be discovered by enemies of the UWW and destroyed.
“It’s ready,” Malia announced, a few seconds after the computer beeped loudly. “We’re online.” She sat cross-legged on a carpet, with the computer and m
odem in front of her. The screen was amber, and had a pulsing, bright red section in the upper right hand corner.
Over-anxious, Dixie Lou hurried over to her. Through bleary eyes she looked down at the computer, and only peripherally saw Malia move aside.
The Chairwoman sat down, inserted the microcylinder. The machine clicked and whirred as the dataload locked into place.
“Do you know how to operate this model?” Malia inquired.
Dixie Lou nodded, and asked for privacy. The woman stepped away.
Dixie Lou studied the screen, noted that Malia had made an Internet connection with her own codes. Activating a box to enter the word processing program, Dixie Lou brought up the Holy Women’s Bible microcylinder and downloaded it. Then, with trembling hands, she used her own codes to activate a deep-access keyboard. She typed in the UWW broadcast codes, then touched the transmitting button at the top of the screen. As the information was transmitted, sand dropped through an hourglass on the screen. In a few seconds, when this was complete, she repeated the procedure, just to play it safe.
It all seemed to be going through, but Dixie Lou had her concerns. Was this a real satellite connection, or was Malia tricking her? Dixie Lou couldn’t see any reason for such a ruse, since Malia might have killed her and taken the microcylinder—or destroyed it—if she’d had a mind to do so. Besides, Dixie Lou had been able to use her deep-access keyboard, linking to the UWW’s own Internet system. Even so, she didn’t trust anyone, and certainly not a stranger . . . especially not one from a different culture and religion. She erased the path she’d taken, to prevent anyone from retracing her steps—or at least to make it more difficult.
But on impulse, before deleting the downloaded Holy Women’s Bible from Malia’s computer, Dixie Lou did a quick scan of the contents, checking again to see if the formatting looked all right. On the very last page, right after the final words of the new UWW publication, she noticed a row of tiny hieroglyphics.
Calling Malia over, Dixie Lou asked about them.
“Oh, just a minor flaw in my computer,” Malia said, kneeling down and pointing at the strange symbols. “It’s difficult to get repair personnel out here. Nothing to worry about, though. I see that your files have been transmitted.” She pointed to a bar on the top of the screen, “See, it says ‘message sent.’”
Scowling, Dixie Lou deleted her file quickly, before the woman could read much of the ending of the holy book. As the UWW leader did this, Malia said nothing.
An irony occurred to Dixie Lou. If this was an authentic Internet hookup, dependent upon satellites, she was turning the tables on the Bureau—because the BOI had used satellites to spy on the UWW, and attack them. With the e-book publication of the Holy Women’s Bible—and she hoped it was successful!—the UWW was placing the Bureau’s anti-female religious beliefs into question, one of the most sacred foundations of their male-oriented organization.
And she thought of another irony. Under any interpretation, the new bible was a Christian book, but Islamic women were helping to disseminate it at a critical time. They might not be happy to learn that.
Asking for privacy again, Dixie Lou entered a complex series of codes to contact the UWW military base in Tunisia, where she wanted to set up her new headquarters. In view of the aggressiveness of the BOI, she needed to make certain that there were no problems in her path. She double-checked the codes, then wrote and transmitted a brief e-mail letter, including copies to other UWW military bases. Again, she saw the “message sent” confirmation.
Under the protocol she had established, she was supposed to receive an immediate response from Tunisia—but that did not come, not in the two minutes she waited. And, looking at her e-mail again, she saw the odd hieroglyphics there, too, at the end of her message. She hoped Malia was right and truthful, that this was just a minor glitch.
Most troubling was the lack of an immediate response from Tunisia, but she tried to convince herself that it was nothing, that someone had just stepped away from their terminal at the wrong time. She shut down the system, retrieved her microcylinder and slipped it into her pocket.
“Don’t worry,” Malia said, as Dixie Lou rose to her feet. “I see that you are concerned, so the messages you transmitted must be very important. I’m confident that they have gone through perfectly!”
“Yes, I’m sure you’re right,” Dixie Lou said. Bowing slightly, she said, “Thank you for your gracious hospitality, and for your assistance.”
As Dixie Lou returned to her encampment, she considered the momentous occasion in which she was involved. If the e-book transmission went through, it meant that the most startling publication in history had just been dumped on the worldwide web, for instant access everywhere.
Chapter 8
Any person can be compelled to do anything.
—Dixie Lou Jackson, private comment
That evening, Dixie Lou continued her intense questioning of the she-apostles, a session that had been interrupted by the arrival of the Arab women. She wished she could only do this without witnesses, but she needed translators, and needed help to handle seven rebellious children, to keep them under control while she administered punishment. It was one of the responsibilities of leadership, something she had to do.
The she-apostles stood or sat on the sand, while Dixie Lou strutted back and forth in front of them, studying each defiant little face. Behind the children, translators, matrons, and councilwomen held the babies and kept the toddlers standing in place, no matter how much the children fussed and objected, though none of them cried. Dixie Lou found this interesting, the way they were not acting so much like tiny children right now. Maybe it had something to do with the harrowing escape from Monte Konos, and the challenges of battle and survival had matured them. Off to one side, she saw her son Alex watching her, his face reflecting his now-familiar attitude of disapproval.
Coming to a stop, Dixie Lou knelt in front of the flaxen-haired she-apostle, Candace. The two-year old squinted at her in the bright light, and tried unsuccessfully to free herself from the translator who held her hand tightly.
“You know what I want, don’t you?” the Chairwoman asked. In the moments before the translator repeated her words in ancient Aramaic, Dixie Lou thought she saw a flicker of understanding in Candace’s eyes, suggesting that she was faking, that she and her tricky little companions understood English.
Dixie Lou wondered, as she had since landing here, if their supposedly authentic gospels were reflective of true events at the time of Jesus Christ, or if these strange children had made everything up . . . or concealed information of tremendous importance. It was the second time she had questioned them on this matter, and this time she would get what she wanted out of them.
Candace stopped struggling, and stared back at her peevishly.
“All of you are concealing important things from me, information I need to know. I demand to know what it is.”
Dixie Lou glanced around, at the matrons, translators, and councilwomen. That morning, she had asked each of them if they saw what Candace did, vanishing when a bullet was headed toward her, and then reappearing a moment later. None of them admitted seeing it, but Dixie Lou remained convinced that it had happened. The solution to that particular puzzle was a critical part of the enigma of the she-apostles.
The children, even the tiniest, just stared at her blankly, emotionlessly. Obviously, they didn’t care one whit about Dixie Lou Jackson or what troubled her. The Chairwoman had a bleak, dismal feeling. She didn’t want to push the issue, didn’t want to interrogate these special children or even know what more they had to say. But she had to know it nonetheless, in order to do her job, and in order to survive.
In only a short period of time, since leaving Monte Konos, it was becoming a compulsion with her.
Taking a deep breath, because the biggest question filled her with fear, Dixie Lou said, “Tell me about the twelfth she-apostle.” Why should such a question terrify her so? Nonetheless, it did
, inexplicably. She had to know why.
None of the children spoke. She found their expressions irritating, condescending.
“I’ll keep you awake all night if necessary,” Dixie Lou snapped, “as long as it takes. No sleep, no food, no water. We’ll see how long you last out here in the desert.” Again, her words were translated, but Dixie Lou thought she heard a tone of disapproval in the woman’s voice, a thin brunette with pageboy hair.
“Are you translating me word for word?” Dixie Lou asked her.
“Of course, Chairwoman.”
“Well, I hear something in your tone that I don’t like.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do that.”
“These little ones are smart. They pick up vocal inflections, facial expressions, even hand movements. If you show any objection to what I’m saying, it makes them more difficult for all of us to handle. Do you understand that?”
“Yes, ma’am. I didn’t mean to—I’m sorry if I sounded that way.”
Raising her voice so that all of the handlers could hear her clearly, Dixie Lou said, “Don’t think for one moment that these are only children. They’re little demons, more advanced than any of you can imagine. They deserve whatever I do to them, and more.”
“Demons, ma’am?” Deborah Marvel said. “But they recited holy gospels.”
“Call them tricksters instead of demons, if you wish,” Dixie Lou said. “It was only a figure of speech.”
Privately, though, the more Dixie Lou saw of these children, the more she was beginning to doubt their gospels, feeling that the children were lying for some reason. Her personal doubts were not anything she wanted to admit to anyone, or she would have to kill them afterward. The gospels of these children, and of the four who had gone with Lori, had taken on a life of their own. They had become the bedrock supporting the future of United Women of the World.
“I’ll deal with this one,” Dixie Lou said. Putting her face only inches from the Candace’s, she raised her voice. “Are you going to answer me?”
The Lost Apostles Page 6
