by Allen Steele
And it seemed to work. Every now and then, when I paused to rest, I’d spot her nearby; she’d look in my direction, favor me with a shy smile, then go back to what she was doing. I considered crawling out of the pit and going over to chat with her, but none of the men with whom I was working—Boris, Jim, Renaldo, Dex—showed any sign of slacking off, so I decided that it would send the wrong signal. I dug and I dug and I dug, and got blisters on my hands and dirt in my teeth, and told myself that I was just helping out some newcomers, when all I really wanted to do was look into those lovely eyes once more.
They didn’t stop working until Uma went down and twilight was setting in. By then most of the land had been cleared; the tents were all up, and a bonfire was crackling in the stone-ringed pit in the middle of camp. That time of evening, most of the colonists would trudge down the road to Liberty, where they’d stand in line outside the community hall to be doled out some leftover creek crab stew. The Universalists were serving stew, too, but it wasn’t sour crap made from native crustaceans; it was a thick curry of rice and red beans. No one made a big deal of inviting me to join them for dinner; one of the women just handed me a bowl and spoon, and a couple of men moved aside to let me join the circle around the fire. Much to my surprise, a bottle of dry red wine made its way around the circle; everyone took a sip before passing it on, but no one seemed intent on getting drunk. Instead, it was done in a ritualistic sort of way, like taking communion in church.
Conversation was light, mostly about the trouble everyone had breathing the rarefied air, how hard it was to break ground in midwinter. Soon the stars began to come out, and they all stopped to admire the sight of Bear rising above the horizon. Greer sat across the fire from me; she looked up now and then, smiling when she caught my eye, but no words were spoken between us. I was in no hurry to rush the matter. Indeed, it felt as if I were among friends.
Through all this, Zoltan sat cross-legged at the edge of the fire, surrounded by his followers and yet aloof, involved in the small talk but somehow disengaged, a batlike form whose shadowed features were made eldritch by the dancing flames. After everyone had eaten, and the bottle had made its way around, he gently cleared his throat. Conversation stopped as all eyes turned toward him.
“I think,” he said, “the time has come to offer prayer.”
His congregation put down their plates and spoons, bowed their heads, and shut their eyes. I ducked my head a little, but didn’t close my eyes; I haven’t prayed since I was little kid, and didn’t see much reason to start again.
“Lord,” Zoltan began, “thank you for bringing us safely to this world, and for allowing us to find a new home here. We thank you for this first day on Coyote, and for the blessing of our fellowship. We pray that you’ll let us continue in the spirit of the vision revealed during the Holy Transformation, and that our mission here will be successful.”
Thinking that he was done, I looked up, only to find that everyone was still looking down. Embarrassed, my first impulse was to bow my head again . . . yet then I saw that Shirow’s eyes were open and he was gazing at me from across the fire pit.
In that moment, there were simply the two of us: the preacher and the atheist, the chimera and the human, separated by flames yet bound together by silence. No one else was watching; no one else could see into the place where we had met.
“We thank you for your gift,” Zoltan said, never taking his eyes from mine. “Benjamin Harlan, who claims to be an unbeliever, yet who has labored with us and now shares our company. We welcome him as a friend, and hope that he will remain with us through the days to come.” My expression must have amused him, for he smiled ever so slightly. “For all these blessings,” he finished, “we offer our devotion in your name. Amen.”
“Amen,” the Universalists murmured, then they opened their eyes and raised their heads. Many looked toward me, smiling as they did so. Uneasy by this attention, I hastily looked away . . . and found Greer gazing at me, her face solemn, her eyes questioning.
“Umm . . . amen,” I mumbled. “Thanks. I appreciate it.” I picked up my plate, started to rise. “Where should I take this? I mean, for it to . . . y’know, be cleaned.”
“You mean no one told you?” Dex asked. “You’re doing the dishes tonight.”
Everyone laughed, and that broke the moment. “Oh, c’mon,” Zoltan said. “Don’t worry about it. You’re our guest. Stay with us a while.”
“No, really . . . I’ve got to get back to camp.”
“Why? Is there something else you need to do tonight?”
How did he know that? How had he come to the realization that there was nothing that required my urgent attention? I had been a drifter before I had come to Coyote, and little had changed since then. Home was a tent in the Long Journey camp; no one would break into it because I had little, other than a filthy sleeping bag, some extra clothes, and a dead flashlight, that anyone would want to steal. My place in life was on the lowest rung of the ladder; I got by through doing odd jobs when I could find them and living off the dole when I couldn’t. If I froze to death that night, no one would miss me; my body would be buried in the cemetery, my few belongings claimed by anyone who might want them.
“Well . . .” I sat down again. “If you insist.”
“I insist on nothing. Anything you do should be of your own free will. But we’re new here, and we need a guide, someone who’s been on Coyote for a while. You’ve already demonstrated a willingness to help us.” He grinned. “Why not join us? We have enough to share with one more.”
Indeed, they did. I’d seen their supplies and caught myself wondering now and then how I might be able to sneak something out of there without them noticing. Now that Zoltan was practically inviting me to move in with them, such larceny was unnecessary. All I had to do was play the friendly native, and I’d never have to cut bamboo or dig potatoes ever again.
Still, there was no question that this was a religious cult. Not only that, but they followed someone who looked like a bat. The whole thing was spooky, and I wasn’t ready to start wearing a white robe.
“And it doesn’t bother you that I’m not . . . I mean, one of you?” Several people frowned at this. “No offense,” I quickly added, “but I’ve already told you that I’m not a believer. Hell—I mean, heck—I don’t even know what you guys believe in.”
That eased things a bit. Frowns turned to smiles, and a few people chuckled. “Most of us weren’t believers when we joined,” Renaldo began. “We soon learned that—”
“Your sharing our beliefs isn’t necessary,” Shirow said, interrupting Renaldo with an upraised hand. “No one here will proselytize or try to convert you, so long as you neither say or do anything intended to diminish our faith. In fact, I enjoy the fact that we have an atheist in our midst.” His face stretched into a broad grin that exposed his fangs. “Benjamin the Unbeliever . . . you know, I rather like the sound of that.”
More laughter, but not unkind. I found myself laughing with them. I was beginning to like Zoltan; appearances notwithstanding, he seemed like an easygoing sort of guy. And his people weren’t all that weird, once you got to know them. Another glance at Greer, and I realized again that I’d like to get to know her most of all.
“Well, if it’s Gunga Din you’re looking for, I’m your man.” I stood up, brushed off the back of my trousers. “I’ll come back tomorrow and bring my stuff with me.”
“Just like that?” Zoltan looked at me askance. “Don’t you have any questions?”
Once again, I was being put on the spot. Everyone gazed at me, awaiting my response. It seemed as if Zoltan was testing me in some way, trying to find out where I was coming from. Oh, I had plenty of questions, all right, but I didn’t want to screw the deal. So I picked the most obvious one.
“Sure, I do,” I said. “How come you look the way you do?”
The smiles vanished, replaced by expressions of reverence. Some turned their eyes toward the fire; others folded their hands toge
ther, looked down at the ground. For a moment I thought I’d blown it. Greer didn’t look away, though, nor did Zoltan.
“A good question,” he said quietly, “and one that deserves an answer.” Then he shook his head. “But not tonight. Come back tomorrow, and perhaps we’ll tell you . . . if and when you’re ready for the truth.”
He fell silent once more. My audience with him was over; I was being excused. I mumbled a clumsy good-bye, then left the warmth of the campfire and began trudging back through the cold to my squalid little tent. Yet I didn’t feel humiliated. The opposite, in fact. I had just stumbled upon the best scam since Abraham, and all I had to do was go along for the ride.
Or at least so I thought. What I didn’t know was where the ride would eventually take one.
Next morning, I packed up my gear, folded my tent, and bid a not-so-fond farewell to Long Journey turf. The camp chief was surprised to see me go, but hardly choked up about it; he’d never liked me very much, and the feeling was mutual. He’d lose rent for a while, but a new ship had just arrived and eventually he’d find some poor bastard who’d want my space. The few friends I had there were surprised as well, and a couple of them tried to get me to tell them where I was headed, but I kept my mouth shut; I didn’t want anyone else horning in on the act. Jaime tried to follow me, but I sidetracked him by cutting through Trappers Guild turf. By the time he finished apologizing to them, I was on the dirt road leading to the edge of town.
The Universalists weren’t shocked when I reappeared; in fact, they were expecting me. Renaldo and Ernst took one look at the ragged tent I tried to pitch near their own and pronounced it to be uninhabitable; for then, I’d share quarters with them. Clarice wrinkled her nose when she saw my clothes; burn them, she said, they had plenty to spare. They didn’t have an extra sleeping bag, unfortunately, but Arthur relieved me of mine and took it away to be washed. And then everyone agreed that I smelled nearly as bad as the stuff I’d brought with me; before I had a chance to object, water had been boiled, tarps had been erected around a collapsible washtub, and I was being treated to my first hot bath in so long that I’d forgotten what it was like. Nor did I have to do it alone; while Angela washed my feet, Doria rinsed my hair, and neither of them took offense at the embarrassing development that soon occurred between my legs.
I emerged from my bath feeling as clean as the day I was born, wearing clothes so fresh that they crinkled as I walked. And the treatment wasn’t over yet; while I was washing up, Greer made breakfast for me. It was light fare—a bowl of hot oatmeal, a couple of slices of fresh-baked bread, a cup of vegetable juice—but it was much better than what I had been eating for the last year. I ate sitting cross-legged on the ground in front of the fire pit; Greer sat at my side, silently watching as I wolfed everything down. I had to restrain myself from licking the bowl, and when I was done, I turned to her.
“That was the best”—I covered my mouth to stifle a belch—“breakfast I’ve had in years. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. And thank you for coming back. We’re glad to have you with us.” She paused, and added, “And so is Zoltan. He asked me to tell you that.”
“Uh-huh.” Although church members were hard at work all around us, continuing to put the camp together, Zoltan was nowhere to be seen. “Where is he, anyway?”
“In communion with Byron.” Greer nodded toward his tent, a couple of dozen feet away. It occupied the center of the campsite; I noticed that its door flap was closed. “He spends time alone with one of us each day, in meditation. We try to respect their privacy.”
I remembered how he had made himself absent the day before, while everyone else was working. “And who decides who gets to, um, meditate with him?”
“He does, of course. He picks someone with whom to share communion, takes him or her into his tent.” She pointed to her left forearm. “You know who it is because they’ll wear a black sash around their arm. That means they’re excused from their chores for the rest of the day, so that they may contemplate the lesson Zoltan has given them.” She gave me a sly wink. “So of course we’re very happy about it when Zoltan summons one of us,” she quietly added, as if letting me in on a secret. “It means we get a day off.”
Communion, my ass. I knew a freeloader when I saw one. I had to admit, though, that extending the same privilege each day to one of his followers was a smart move; it kept the troops in line. But I kept my opinion to myself. “I’m sure he’s busy. I’ll just have to catch up with him some other time.”
“Umm . . .” She hesitated. “One thing you should know is that you don’t approach him first. When he’s ready to speak to you, he will . . . but you’ll have to wait for that moment. Then you can talk to him.”
I nodded, trying to keep a poker face. “Still, there’s a lot I’d like to ask him. After all, he left me hanging last night.”
“Such as?”
“Well, for starters, why he looks like a . . .”
Greer’s hand darted forth to cover my mouth. Ian happened to be walking past at that moment; he cast a dark look in my direction, then hastened away, carrying an armload of fresh-cut sourgrass to a bonfire burning nearby. Greer watched him go, then removed her hand from my face. “We found something queer earlier this morning,” she said, her voice a little more loud than usual. “A plant of some sort. We were hoping you could tell us what it is.”
I glanced again at Zoltan’s tent. He’d already demonstrated a keen sense of hearing. “Sure,” I said, picking myself off the ground. “That’s why I’m here.”
Greer showed me where I could wash my plate and bowl, then led me through the camp, taking me toward the uncleared marshland. We walked slowly, avoiding the people working around us. “You must never speak of this in public,” she said, keeping her voice low. “It’s a sacred thing, the very root of our faith. In fact, I shouldn’t be telling you even this much . . . Zoltan will, when he feels that you’re ready.”
I shrugged. “Maybe so, but yesterday you guys got off a shuttle in full view of several dozen people. They all saw him . . . and believe me, word travels fast in Shuttlefield. Even if I don’t ask, someone else will.”
“I know. The same questions we faced back on Earth.” She shook her head. “Outsiders have a difficult time understanding the Transformation, how it’s central to our beliefs. That’s why we’re reluctant to speak of it.”
“Sure . . . but Zoltan invited me to join you, right? Even though he knows I’m not a believer.” She nodded. “So if he did, and your people have accepted me, wouldn’t it make sense for me to know?” She frowned, her eyes narrowing as she considered my question. “I promise, it’s just between you and me. Besides, I’ve already brought my stuff over here. Take my word for it, I’m not going back anytime soon.”
“Well . . .” She glanced around. “But only if you won’t tell anyone I told you.”
I promised her that I wouldn’t. By then we were away from the center of the camp; no one else was around. Greer knelt down behind a vacant tent, and in a hushed voice she told me about the Holy Transformation of Zoltan Shirow.
It happened during the Dixie Rebellion, back in 2241 when a small group of Southern nationalists, nostalgic for the United Republic of America—and before that, the Civil War of the 1860s—attempted to stage an insurrection against the Western Hemisphere Union. For several months, the Army of Dixie committed terrorist acts across the South, planting bombs in government offices in Memphis and Atlanta and assassinating government officials in Birmingham, until the Agencia Security succeeded in breaking up the network. With most of their leaders arrested, the surviving Dixies retreated to the hill country of eastern Tennessee, where they battled Union Guard troops dispatched to arrest them.
One of the Guard soldiers sent in for the mop-up operation was one Corporal Zoltan Shirow, a young recruit who had never seen combat duty before. His patrol was searching for a Dixie hideout near the town of McMinnville when they were caught in an ambush that killed the rest o
f his team. Critically wounded, Corporal Shirow managed to escape in a maxvee, only to crash his vehicle in a patch of woods just outside town.
“This is the First Station,” Greer said. “Zoltan the warrior, the sinner without knowledge of God.”
“All right,” I said. “I got that part. . . .”
She held up a hand. “It was then that he was discovered by the Redeemer, and brought to the Room of Pain and Understanding.”
The Redeemer went by the name of Dr. Owen Dunn. The Universalists held a special place for him in their mythology roughly analogous to John the Baptist and Satan rolled into one, but the truth was much more prosaic, as I later learned. Dr. Dunn had moved from Nashville to McMinnville some years earlier, when he set up a small private practice. On the surface, he appeared to be little more than a country doctor, mending broken bones and delivering babies. What no one knew was that he had secretly continued the research that had caused him to be dismissed from the faculty of the Vanderbilt University School of Medicine.
Dunn was interested in the creation of homo superior. Unlike scientists engaged in genengineering, though, he believed that it was possible to refashion a full-grown adult into a posthuman, using nanoplastiosurgical techniques he had developed while at Vanderbilt. The medical school considered his research to be unethical, though, and rightly so; Dunn could be charitably described as a quack, yet it’s more accurate to say that he was a biomedical researcher who had gone insane. To put it in blunt—albeit clichéd—terms, he was a mad doctor.
Before leaving Vanderbilt, he stole some experimental nanites from the med school laboratory, and while living in McMinnville he had quietly continued his research, hoping eventually to produce a breakthrough that would restore his standing in the scientific community. To that end, Dunn had invested his earnings in the surreptitious purchase of commercial medical equipment—including a cell regenerator of the type used in hospitals for the cloning of new tissue—which he set up in the basement of his house. When that wasn’t sufficient, his experiments took on a gothic air. He resorted to disinterring freshly buried bodies from nearby cemeteries. As Dunn himself would later admit, once he had been arrested and brought to trial, his methods were reminiscent of Frankenstein, even though they yielded positive results. Over time, he learned how to restructure flesh and bone from deceased donors into whatever form he desired.
