Blasphemy wf-2

by Douglas Preston

  “Of course. I’m a mathematician. I live and die by logic. And by logic, this thing speaking to us is some higher power. Call it God, call it the primum mobile, call it the Great Spirit, it doesn’t matter.”

  “I call it a fraud.”

  “Where’s your evidence? No programmer has ever written code that survived the Turning test. Nor is there a computer built—not even Isabella’s supercomputer brain—capable of true AI. You cannot explain how it knew Kate’s numbers or Gregory’s names. Most importantly, I, like Kate, recognize the profound truth it propounds. If not God, it’s a highly intelligent entity from this or another universe, and therefore preternatural. Yes, I take it at face value. The simplest explanation obtains. Occam’s razor.”

  “Besides,” said Chen, “that output was coming straight from CZero. How do you explain that?”

  Ford looked at the others, from Dolby’s fine ebony face, wet with tears, to the shaking delirium that seemed to be taking hold of Julie Thibodeaux’s body . . . . Unbelievable, thought Ford. Look at them all. They all believe it . Michael Cecchini, his normally dead face suddenly alive, radiant . . . Rae Chen . . . Harlan St. Vincent . . . George Innes . . . all of them. Even Wardlaw, who in this impossible security crisis ignored his security feeds and instead gazed on Hazelius with slavish, sycophantish adoration.

  Clearly he’d missed a dark and alarming dynamic in the team all along. Even in Kate,especially Kate.

  “Wyman, Wyman,” said Hazelius soothingly. “You’re emoting. We are thinking. That’s what we do best.”

  Ford took a step backward. “This isn’t about God. It’s just some hacker telling you what you want to hear. And you’re falling for it.”

  “We’re falling for it because it’s the truth,” said Hazelius. “I know it in my intellect and in my bones. Look at us: me, Alan, Kate, Rae, Ken—all of us. Could we all be wrong? Scientific skepticism is in our blood. We’re steeped in it. No one can accuse us of credulity. What makes you more prescient than us?”

  Ford had no answer.

  Hazelius said, “We’re losing valuable time.” He turned calmly to the screen and spoke. “Continue, please. You have our full attention.”

  Could they be right? Could it be God? Ford turned back to the next message on the screen with grim foreboding.

  58

  FROM HIS HILL AT THE EDGE of the staging area, with Doke at his side, Eddy watched the stream of vehicles arrive. In the last hour, several hundred of them had poured up over the lip of the Dugway, first dirt bikes, ATVs, and Jeeps, and then pickups, motorcycles, SUVs, and cars. The arrivals brought tales of hindrance and obstruction. State police roadblocks had gone up on I-40, Route 89 through Grey Mountain and Route 160 at Cow Springs, but the faithful had found ways around on the warren of dirt roads that crisscrossed the Rez.

  The vehicles were parking in a disorganized mass just beyond the top of the Dugway, but, Eddy mused, it didn’t matter how they parked. Nobody would drive home. They were heading home another way—via the Rapture.

  At times the oncoming horde seemed anarchic: loud voices, wailing toddlers, drunks, even people on drugs. But those who had arrived early greeted and organized the newcomers with prayer, Bible verses, and the Word. At least a thousand worshippers massed in the open area in front of his hill, waiting for instructions. Many carried Bibles and crosses. Some carried guns. Others had brought whatever weapon first came to hand, from iron skillets and kitchen knifes to sledgehammers, axes, machetes, and brush hooks. Boys carried slingshots, BB guns, and baseball bats. Others brought two-way radios, which Eddy requisitioned and distributed to a small group he had selected as his commanders, keeping one for himself.

  Eddy was surprised at the number of children—even mothers nursing babies. Children at Armageddon? But it made sense when he thought about it. These were the End Times. All would be raptured into heaven together.

  “Hey,” said Doke, nudging Eddy. “Cop car.”

  Eddy followed his gesture. There, in the line of traffic coming up the Dugway, a lone police car was inching along, its lights flashing.

  He turned back toward his new flock. The gathering crowd surged and flowed, their murmuring voices mingling like rain. Flashlights flickered, and he could hear the clink of metal on metal, slides being racked, shotguns pumped. One man was making torches out of bundles of dead piñon branches and passing them around. The discipline was extraordinary.

  “I’m trying to think what to say to them,” Eddy said.

  “You gotta be careful, talking to cops,” said Doke.

  “I mean my sermon. To the Lord’s army, before we set out,” said Eddy.

  “Yeah, but what about this cop?” said Doke. “There’s only one car, but he’s got a radio. This could be trouble.”

  Eddy watched the flashing lights, surprised that some people were actually pulling over at the turnouts to let the squad car pass. Old habits of obedience to government, to authority, were going to die hard. That was what he’d talk about. How, from now on, their only obedience was to God.

  “He’s coming up the Dugway,” said Doke.

  The sound of the siren soon reached the mesa top, faint at first, then louder. The seething crowd grew thicker, spreading out in front of him, waiting for direction. Many were praying, their petitions rising into the night air. Groups of people held hands, their heads bowed. The sound of hymns reached his ears. It reminded Eddy of how he imagined things were when people gathered for the Sermon on the Mount. That’s it. That’s where he’d start his sermon. “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God . . . .” No, that wasn’t a good Bible verse to start with. Something more arousing: “ Woe to the inhabiters of the earth and of the sea! for the devil is come down unto you, having great wrath, because he knoweth that he hath but a short time.” The Antichrist. That’s what he had to focus on. The Antichrist. Just a few words and he would lead his army forward.

  The cop car topped the rim, still stuck in the mass of cars. It came down the stretch of asphalt and pulled off to the side a few hundred yards away. Eddy could see the emblem of the Navajo Nation Tribal Police on the door. A spotlight on the roof shone around; then a door opened. A tall Indian got out, a Navajo policeman. Even from a hundred yards off, Eddy recognized Bia.

  At once, the policeman was surrounded by people. From what Eddy could hear, it sounded like an argument was developing.

  “What do we do now, Pastor Russ?” people called.

  “We wait,” he said in a voice strong and low, so different from his normal voice that he wondered if it was even him speaking. “God will show us the way.”

  59

  LIEUTENANT BIA FACED THE CROWD, HIS feeling of uneasiness growing. He’d gotten the call about some kind of disturbance at Red Mesa and he’d assumed it was the protest ride, and when he’d seen the heavy traffic on the Red Mesa road he’d joined it. But as he looked around, he could see that whoever these people were, they had nothing to do with the protest ride. These people carried guns and swords, crosses and axes, Bibles and kitchen knives. Some had painted crosses on their foreheads and their clothes. It was some kind of cult gathering—perhaps connected to that television preacher’s sermon he’d heard people talking about. He was relieved to see it consisted of people of all races—blacks, Asians, even a few who looked Navajo or Apache. At least it wasn’t the KKK or Aryan Nations.

  He tucked up his belt and put his hands on his hips, facing the crowd with an easy smile, hoping not to spook anyone. “You folks got a leader? Someone I can talk to?”

  A man in faded Wranglers and a blue workshirt stepped forward. He had a heavy face burned brown from a lifetime in the fields, a large gut, short thick arms that stood away from his body, and callused hands. An old Colt M1917 Revolver with ivory handles was shoved under his diamondback belt, a polished brass crucifix mounted on its buckle. “Yeah. We have a leader. His name’s God. Who are you?”

  “Lieutenant Bia, Tribal Police.” He felt a twinge at the
man’s unnecessarily belligerent tone. But he would play it cool, not confrontational. “What person is in charge here?”

  “Lieutenant Bia, I’ve got just one question for you: Are you a Christian here for the fight?”

  “The fight?”

  “Armageddon.”

  For emphasis, the man rested a palm on the Colt’s ivory-handled butt.

  Bia swallowed. The crowd closed in on him. He wished he’d radioed for backup. “I’m a Christian, but I haven’t heard of any Armageddon.”

  The crowd fell silent.

  “Have you been born again in the water of life?” the man continued.

  From the crowd rose a sharp murmur. Bia took a deep breath. No point in getting in a religious pissing contest with these people. Better to tone things down. “Why don’t you tell me about this Armageddon?”

  “The Antichrist is here. On this very mesa. The battle of the Lord God Almighty is at hand. Either you’re with us or you’re against us. The time is now. Make your decision.”

  Bia had no idea how to respond to this. “I guess you folks know this is the Navajo Nation, and you’re trespassing on land leased to the U.S. government.”

  “You haven’t answered my question.”

  The crowd tightened the ring around him. Bia could feel their agitation and smell it in their sweat.

  “Sir,” he said in a low voice, “keep your hand away from your firearm.”

  The man’s hand did not move.

  “I said,move your hand away from the firearm.”

  The man’s hand closed on the gun butt. “You’re either with us or against us. Which is it?”

  When Bia didn’t answer, the man turned and spoke to the crowd. “He’s not one of us. He’s come to fight for the other side.”

  “What do you expect?” someone cried, echoed by the crowd. “What do you expect?”

  Bia began backing up, slow and easy, toward his vehicle.

  The gun came up. The man pointed it at Bia.

  “Sir, I’m not here to fight anyone,” said Bia. “There’s absolutely no reason for you to point a gun at me. Put it down.”

  An older woman in work boots and a straw stockman’s hat, her face as cured as old leather, put her hand on the man’s arm. “Jess, save your bullets. That man’s not the Antichrist. He’s just a cop.”

  The word “Antichrist” rumbled through the crowd. People squeezed in even closer to Bia.

  “Sir,I said put the gun down .”

  The man lowered it, uncertain.

  “Okay, Wyatt Earp, give me the gun.” The woman reached over and took it from his slack hand, shook out the rounds, and slipped the gun and bullets into her shoulder bag.

  “There’s no Antichrist up here,” said Bia, disguising his relief. “This is Navajo Nation land and you’re trespassing. Now, if you’ve got a leader, I’d like to speak to him.” As soon as he got back to his squad car, he’d radio for backup. National Guard–level backup.

  A voice rang out, “We’re here as God’s army—to fight and die for the Lord!”

  Fight. Fight. Fight. The crowd repeated the word like a chant.

  A man with a long forked beard pushed forward, a rock in his fist, and shouted, “Are you born again in the water of life?”

  Angered at the man’s inquisitorial tone, Bia said, “My religion is none of your business. Lay down that rock, mister, or I’ll charge you with assault.” He placed a hand on his baton.

  The man spoke to the crowd. “We can’t let him go. He’s a cop. He’s got a radio. He’ll warn the others.” The man raised the rock high. “Answer!”

  Bia released his riot baton. Spinning it up, he swung the stick against the man’s arm, backhanded, as hard as he could. With a sickening crack the forearm shattered and the rock dropped to the ground.

  “He broke my arm!” the man shrieked, falling to his knees.

  “Disperse now and no one else will get hurt!” Bia called loudly. He took a step back, up against the fender of his car, his baton raised. If he could just get into the car, he’d have some protection—and he could radio for help.

  “The cop broke his arm!” a man shouted, kneeling.

  The crowd surged forward with a roar. A rock came flying and Bia dodged it. It smacked into the windshield with a dull, cracking thud.

  Bia yanked open the door and ducked in, and tried to shut the door behind him, but it was held open by a surge of people. He grabbed the radio, hit the TRANSMIT button.

  “He’s radioing out!” someone yelled.

  A dozen hands grabbed him, pulling him back, ripping his shirt.

  “The son of a bitch ists radioing out! He’s calling in the enemy!”

  The mike was wrested from his hand and torn from its mount. Bia tried gripping the steering wheel, but the many-armed mob dragged him back out with relentless force. He tumbled to the ground, tried to stand, but was kicked down to his knees.

  He went for his gun, yanked it out. He rolled on his side, pointing it into the crowd. “Stand back!” he screamed.

  A rock slammed him in the chest, cracking his ribs. Bia fired point-blank into the crowd.

  A chorus of screams rose up.

  “My husband,” shrieked a voice. “Oh my God!”

  A baseball bat swung out, struck his leg. He fired twice again, before the bat smashed his arm and the gun went flying.

  The screaming mob piled on him, cursing, kicking, beating.

  He fell to his face, scrabbling for the gun, but a boot came down hard on his hand, crushing it. He screamed, rolled, tried to crawl under his squad car.

  “Stone him! Murderer! Stone him!”

  He could feel the pummeling of rocks and sticks against him, the smack of them into bone and muscle, the rain of stones on the metal and glass of the police car. Choking with pain, he managed to crawl partway under the car, but they seized his leg and hauled him back into a maelstrom of blows and kicks. Screaming in pain and terror, he curled up into a fetal position, trying to protect himself from the rain of violence. The roar of the crowd began to fade, replaced by a dull roar in his own head. The blows came, but now they were happening to someone else, someone else was taking this journey, going farther and farther away. The roar subsided into a distant murmur, and then welcoming darkness gratefully came.

  AS EDDY WATCHED, THE CROWD MOILED like dogs over the place where the cop had stood only a moment before. He saw him struggle to rise, then he was gone, dragged down by the undertow of the surging, stone-throwing crowd.

  The chanting died down and the crowd seemed to go slack, then drift backward. The only thing left was the policeman’s cap and a lumpy, trampled uniform.

  As the mob slowly dispersed, only a kneeling woman remained, wailing, holding a bleeding man in her arms. Eddy felt a surge of panic. Why was everything so different from how he had imagined it? Why did it seem so sordid?

  “This is Armageddon,” came the deep, reassuring voice of Doke. “It had to start sometime.”

  Doke was right. They’d passed the point of no return. The battle was joined. God was directing their hand, and there was no second-guessing Him. Eddy felt a surge of confidence.

  “Pastor?” murmured Doke. “The people need you.”

  “Of course.” Eddy stepped forward, raised his hands. “My Friends in Christ! Listen! My friends in Christ!”

  A restless silence fell.

  “I am Pastor Russell Eddy!” he cried. “I am the man who exposed the Antichrist!”

  The crowd, electrified by the violence, surged toward him in waves, like the ocean reaching for the shore.

  Eddy grasped Doke’s hand and raised it. “The kings, the politicians, the liberal secularists, and the humanists of this corrupt world will hide in the caves and the mountain’s rocks. They will call to the mountains and rocks, ‘Fall on us, and hide us from the face of Him that sitteth on the throne, and from the wrath of the Lamb, for the great day of His wrath has come, and who shall be able to stand?’ ”

  A roar fille
d the night and the swelling crowd surged.

  Eddy turned, pointed, and thundered: “There, three miles to the east, is a fence. Beyond that fence is a cliff. Down the cliff lies Isabella. And inside Isabella is the Antichrist. He goes by the name of Gregory North Hazelius.”

  The roar reverberated as shots rang out into the sky.

  “Go!” Eddy cried, shaking his pointing hand. “Go as one people led by the flaming sword of Zion! Go, and find the Antichrist! Destroy him and the Beast! The battle of the great God Almighty is joined! ‘The sun shall be darkened, and the moon shall not give her light, and the stars shall fall from heaven!’ ”

  He stepped back and the teeming throng turned and undulated eastward across the moonlit mesa, the flashlights and torches bobbing in the darkness like a thousand glowing eyes.

  “Well done,” said Doke. “You really fired ‘em up.”

  Still grasping Doke’s powerful arm, Eddy turned to go with them. He glanced back and glimpsed Bia, a crumpled rag in the dust—and the woman, weeping and cradling her dead husband.

  The first casualties of Armageddon.

  60

  A FRESH-FACED BOY IN HIS EARLY twenties, Agent Miller drove Bern Wolf from the airstrip to the fenced security area in a Humvee. They passed through a series of smashed gates and pulled up in the center of the parking lot, amid a scattering of civilian cars. Everything was bathed in the harsh glow of powerful lights.

  Wolf looked around. Soldiers converged at the edge of the mesa, fixing ropes to rappel down the cliffs to Isabella.

  “We wait in the vehicle until called, sir,” said Miller.

  “Terrific.” Wolf was sweating. He was a computer scientist, he wasn’t cut out for this kind of shit. The knot in his stomach was taut and heavy. Wolf figured to stay close to Agent Miller and his twenty-two-inch arms that could bench-press Buicks. His back and shoulders were so massive, they made the 7.62 NATO assault rifle slung under his armpit look like a kid’s plastic gun.

  He watched the men working at the edge of the mesa. One by one, they roped up and jumped backward off the lip, carrying bulky packs. Even though Wolf hadn’t visited Isabella, he knew it like the back of his hand, he’d planned some of the layouts and he’d pored over the construction diagrams. He also knew the software, and the DOE had given him an envelope with all the shutdown and security codes. Turning off Isabella would not be a problem.