Anthony nodded his head and stood up. “I have something to show you.” He walked over to his wall locker, dialed the combination lock and took out the jewelry Senator Chavez had given him the night before. As he returned to his chair, he handed them to the priest and sat down.
“As you know, I left here last night with Tanya, Ann-Marie and Vigo. We went to Senator Chavez's home on the other side of the Bay. She was dying of cancer, and you could say I was doing a house call. Before she crossed over, she gave me that locket and medallion you're holding in your hand. She called the medallion a trinket, yet it is vaguely familiar to me for some reason, but let's forget that for the moment. This is about the locket; I found something inside that has plagued me since we returned last night. Go ahead and open it."
Father Bennett opened the locket, looked inside and found the data chip. “Anthony, I have no earthly idea of what you're talking about."
He took the locket and the chip from the priest. Putting the chip back into the locket, he closed the locket and placed it on the table. “The information in this locket is now forcing me to make a life or death decision—probably the most dangerous decision of my life."
“Well I don't understand electronics all too well, Anthony, but I have a bit more experience with the human condition. What's the history, here?"
Anthony closed the locket and put it back around his neck. “Some years ago, I fathered a child out of wedlock with a woman whom I now know that I loved very much. My son was kidnapped and is being held by very powerful people. Before Senator Chavez crossed over, she gave me this chip so that I could organize a rescue."
The priest rubbed his eye with a soft moan. “My gut instincts tell me there is some kind of link between you, your son and Vigo. Am I right?"
“Let's say yes and leave it at that. Padre, I do not want to get you involved too much. Just let me simply say that both Vigo and I share a similar emotional investment in this situation and that we cannot go to the authorities with this. Yet, a rescue attempt will require the help of several people, and people will die. Hopefully, it will only be those who are holding my son."
“And you're wondering if it is worth your soul and your son's life to ask others to go on what could essentially be a suicide mission to save your son?"
“You're batting a thousand tonight, Padre. One part of me wants to do it, and the other is wondering if I have the right to ask others to risk their lives to save just one life—my son."
“Now, you're talking about something a simple priest like me can understand.” Father Bennett then picked up the bottle; “May I refresh your glass?” Anthony nodded. As he refilled the glasses, he noted in a casual tone, “You see this situation as having only two options, when actually, there are three.” He lifted his glass. “Cheers."
Anthony took another drink and stared at the priest with a puzzled expression. “Now it's my turn to wonder what in the heck you're talking about."
“This is not about your son, Anthony. This is about you and your own personal demon, and this dilemma has three options. The first two are simple, submit to the demon or rescue your son while risking the lives of those who believe in you. You're torn by this dilemma and you're hoping that I can help you make a decision that you can live with for the rest of your life if things take a turn for the worse."
“And I'm barking up the wrong tree?"
“Absolutely. You see, I'm only interested in discussing the third option, which is whether or not you will face your own personal demon. Whatever you do, if you fail in this regard, you will certainly regret your decision for the rest of your life."
“I'm not following you."
“This is a lovely Scotch whisky,” the priest replied taking a thoughtful sip and licked his lips. “Anthony, let me put it to you this way. Right now, you're locked in a contest with your personal demon, whoever he is, and the two of you are like wrestlers with their arms entwined around each other. So tell me, do you know, you and your demon are moving about the mat searching for a weakness that will give you the leverage to the throw the other to the floor and best him?"
“I don't know if I'm even doing that,” Anthony thought aloud.
“There it is, my boy. The difference between you and your personal demon is that you question the morality of what you are doing, whereas he is certain of it. In this regard, he feels that he has the upper hand on you and that, with time, will move you into a disadvantageous position and pin you without mercy for a complete victory."
“And what about me?"
“Right now, you cannot see a clear way to throw your demon to the floor, and, as you twist about with him, your mind is beginning to fill with distractions. After all, you were not the one to choose this contest—it was he."
“So, what should I do?"
“If I were a high-school wrestling coach, I would tell you to keep your mind focused on what you are doing, and watch carefully for any opportunities that may come your way. When they do come, the rest is up to you."
“You're darn right about one thing, padre, I didn't pick this fight.” Anthony's sense of frustration suddenly evaporated. “You're also right about keeping my focus and waiting for an opportunity that will give me leverage. Then, I'll know what to do. I may or may not be able to save my son, but at least I will not have to worry about losing myself as well."
The priest slapped him on the shoulder. “That's the spirit, Anthony. I knew you had it in you. You know, God works in mysterious ways. I have a feeling that this will work out OK, because I'm certain that you are a man destined for greatness."
“Whoa there, padre. Greatness?"
“Now, I have to tell you a little secret as well,” the priest admitted. “As a young man, before I went into the seminary, I had a passing interest in the prophecies of Nostradamus. While I was only interested in knowing why his prophecies remain so popular, there was one account of him that has been sticking in my mind. It seems that one day he was passed by some friars while on the road, when he suddenly knelt before one of them saying, ‘I must kneel before His Holiness.’ Strangely enough, it turned out that he was right, because that particular monk would later became Pope Sixtus V. In a manner of speaking, one could say that Nostradamus instinctively sensed the monk's destiny to greatness."
Anthony cocked his head back. “Aren't we speaking a bit of heresy now, padre? If the boys in Rome heard you talking now they'd be a bit concerned now, wouldn't they?"
Father Bennett cleared his voice and answered, “As I said, nothing we've said must leave this room."
“I was just teasing."
“Well, I wasn't. The fact is, Anthony, I, along with everyone else in this accursed place, see a grand destiny for you. We do not know why, other than we just do. Follow your heart, Anthony, and you will find your destiny."
“Well then, that just leaves me with one last thing,” Anthony sighed. “I've got to wait for a sign of my own leverage before I can make up my mind."
Father Bennett picked the locket up from the table and dangled it before him. “You know this locket contains your leverage, Anthony. Otherwise, why would you have shown it to me?"
Anthony nodded. “I guess you're right about that, but then there are other things to consider."
“They'll work themselves out in due time, my boy.” He swung the locket back and forth. “You've got your leverage, but are you ready to make your move?"
Anthony rubbed his chin thoughtfully studying the dangling locket as it moved hypnotically back and forth in the priest's hands. After a long moment of silence he said, “Say, Padre, do you think you could scrounge up some sandwiches from the mess tent and then we'll practice our singing tonight even if it does hair lip the whole center."
The priest handed him the locket with a chuckle. “I might even be able to get a few nice, thick hot beef sandwiches at that."
“Hot beef? You've got pull with somebody in the mess."
“It so happens, one of the cooks was an altar boy, and he's an und
erstanding fellow if you get my meaning."
Anthony shook his head. “If you're talking about leverage—yes!"
“Now you're on the right track, my boy. I'll be back in two shakes."
After Father Bennett left the dome, Anthony went to his locker, took out Vigo's note and dialed his cell phone using the unlisted number on the note. He heard a plain greeting in Vigo's own voice and, after the tone, simply said, “Yes,” and hung up.
He took down the last pack of cigarettes from the carton Vigo had given him the day he first arrived at Livermore and a lighter. Sitting back down at the table, he stuck a cigarette in his mouth and laid Vigo's note in the aluminum ash stray. He struck the lighter, lit the note first, then his cigarette and inhaled deeply as he watched the paper burn.
Picking up his glass, he took a sip of whisky, and then held the glass up to the light as the one nagging problem that had troubled him most came to mind. Looking at the ice cubes floating in the amber colored liquid inside the glass he muttered the question to himself. “If the Syrians detected our attack before we make it to the silo, they'll close it down and that will be the end of us, my son and everything. So how do we keep them from closing the damn blast doors?” He took another drink and sat the glass down. Like Father Bennett had said, this problem would work itself out but he had no Earthly idea from where the solution would come. All he could do would be to have faith that it eventually would. Little did he know, it would, and from the other end of the world.
* * * *
JEFFREY LEBLANC CONTINUED pacing the empty hallway of the main administration building in Obninsk City, as the junior members of the Russian A.I. engineering team left the main conference room like wounded gladiators. He could tell by the expressions on their faces that the review committee had received the presentation of their own quasill less than enthusiastically. A few glanced his way, knowing that his Andrea quasill was what the committee really wanted to see.
The last of the team to leave the conference room was its leader, Boris Berezovsky, a short, spindly dark-haired man with sunken eyes and a receding hairline made especially noticeable from his habit of combing long strands of brown hair from one side of his head to cover his bald spot.
Berezovsky walked towards LeBlanc and said in a calm voice, “As you may have guessed, Jeffrey, our proof-of-concept presentation was over before it really began.” He shrugged his shoulders and sighed. “It was to be expected. Before we left, they instructed me to tell you they are taking a 30-minute recess before seeing your presentation and that they would send someone to get you. If you are curious about what to expect, there is a patio at the end of the hall. Perhaps you would like to join me for a smoke."
“I don't smoke,” LeBlanc replied, “but the heads up would be really appreciated. You lead and I'll follow."
As the two men approached the end of the hallway Berezovsky noted in a curious tone, “I know Andrea is far more sophisticated than anything we could hope to produce. How did you manage to do it in so little time and by yourself, no less?” He opened the door to the patio and gestured towards the railing.
“If the committee approves of Andrea, then you'll know. Otherwise, if I told you, I'd have to shoot you."
“I'm more patient than curious,” Boris replied as he leaned against the patio railing. He removed a small tin from his pocket and drew out a roughly cut square of newsprint and large pinch of tobacco. As he rolled his newsprint cigarette with an expert touch, he said, “As you could see by the faces of the software engineers on my team, our presentation was not well received."
“I noticed. They'll get over it.” LeBlanc hoping to shift the direction of the conversation towards information he wanted. “I know that Pavel Sergeevich Lebedev is on the review committee, but that's all. Can you fill me in on the others?"
“Of course. Well as you already know, our new Obninsk Centre Director is running this review, and he is one of three men on the review panel. The other two are Igor Petrovich Razumovsky, our new Minister of Science and an Israeli mathematician by the name of Isaac Aronovich Bachtman. If your proof-of-concept proposal is accepted, which I am almost certain it will be, you will begin to work with Bachtman very closely."
LeBlanc nodded reflectively. “So why are you throwing in the towel so quickly on your prototype, since you haven't seen what I'm about to present?"
“Your reputation precedes you, Jeffrey. You are the top man in the field of quasi-sentient intelligence. With one hand tied behind your back, you could create a Quasill that would be light years ahead of what we can do, and I think you've done it."
“I wouldn't jump to that conclusion. After all, you've got a whole team working under you. As for me, I'm a team of one."
“And that is your advantage. You have the vision; the right vision, and nobody to muddy it up with politics or engineering committee nonsense. As for me, I have a dozen people under me, each with his or her ideas and opinions. On the other hand, you have only yourself and so you go in a pure direction. In this, I envy you, your abilities and your freedom to create as you choose with everything you need."
“Sometimes it can be as much of a curse as a blessing."
“I would like to be so cursed some day."
“Perhaps.” The two men laughed.
Jeffrey leaned his elbows against the rail and stared off into the red-black sky. “So why do you think your presentation was a bust?"
“Because I planned it that way."
LeBlanc turned to look at him with a mystified expression.
Boris laughed under his breath. “I will explain. When Lebedev gave us an assignment to develop a competitive prototype to your Quasill, I knew we did not have a chance to win, but on the other hand, I'm not so anxious to go back to programming agriculture robots either. I had to find an edge, and I did. You see, I know that you have invested the bulk of your efforts on developing your personality engram and holographic interface. So, I focused my team's attention on building a less robust quasill, but with a very sophisticated nanotechnology sensory controller. Our quasill may be crude, but it can control trillions of sensory nanobots, which gives it a real edge."
“Yes, this is necessary technology, but we were not instructed to build a nanotechnology sensory controller prototype for this presentation."
“Nor were we specifically told not to do so. I can only thank God that we're not living in the time of Stalin or I'd be on my way to a gulag in Siberia right now."
“OK, I follow your thinking. So, just what have you got up your sleeve, Boris?"
“I knew from the beginning that we would be a backup to your work, but that was not what I wanted. Rather, I want my team to do something useful and unique, instead of slaving away on redundant designs that will most likely be scrapped somewhere down the road. I know I cannot beat you at your own game, Jeffrey, so I'm playing to my own strength with my nanotechnology sensory controller. Of course, this is not what Director Lebedev wanted, and right now, he is angry with me. However, I know he is a practical man and that he sees the value in what I've done."
“But how do you know I'm not building one of these controllers, myself? You must know you're taking a big chance here."
“In Russian we have a saying, ‘he, who does not take risks, does not drink champagne. The magnetic anomalies caused by Shiva make it impossible to probe the object with conventional means. This is why I believe the only way to do it is with nanobots. This way, we can map its interior with the accuracy we need, provided your Andrea can manage the data. Science Minister Razumovsky saw this immediately, so I expect that there will be exciting times ahead for me and my team."
“That's all well and good,” Jeffrey replied, “but one thing still bothers me. How did you know I wasn't working on a similar controller? Did you find a way to sneak into my lab or tap my data banks?"
“Trust me when I tell you that I have not violated your privacy. Besides, it wasn't necessary. My wife, Marina works in the laboratory supply department and she s
howed me your equipment and supply requests. You haven't even requested the equipment and supplies need to research the basic work yet."
LeBlanc began laughing and pounding on the railing. “You're a clever man. A bit sneaky, but clever."
Berezovsky's head drew back. “I'm sneaky? Speak for yourself and your secret one-man laboratory. Do you know that you are the official mystery man of the Obninsk Centre? Everyone talks about you, and wonders what you're doing."
“OK, I guess I am a loner. So are you proposing that we combine our efforts?"
“Hopefully you can see the value in such an arrangement."
“Well it would save me a lot of time working on something which is of little interest to me. Why not, that is, provided your engineers can stay out of my hair and that the review committee doesn't surprise us both, by accepting your quasill design instead of my own."
“I'm sure they will accept your Andrea, as they need a sophisticated quasill if they hope to sell this idea to the Americans. But I have only one small request if this does happen."
“And that is?"
Boris held up the ashen butt of his hand-rolled newsprint cigarette. “Could you provide me with some of your marvelous American cigarettes?"
“You know you really shouldn't smoke."
The Russian engineer shrugged his shoulders. “It is my only vice."
“Well, since you put it that way, OK. I guess I can handle that too."
Boris looked at his wristwatch. “We have about ten minutes before your presentation, and I wish you great luck. Perhaps if you're not doing anything for dinner this evening, my Marina makes the most incredible Galupsi you could ever imagine, and she is so anxious to meet you."
“No offense, but is this Galupsi stuff made with that stinky fish you guys like?"
Boris laughed. “Not at all. It is a wonderful dish and very popular with Americans. Can we expect you around eight?"
Godschild Covenant: Return of Nibiru Page 45
