Coyote Horizon (21 page)

Rice knew that there was no honest answer that would disprove what Taf had just said. Instead, he decided to change the subject. “You say that your race used to worship . . . well, a divine creator. What made you change? How did you come up with . . . um,
Sa’Tong
, as you call it?”

The
hjadd’s
hands reappeared from the sleeves of hisher robe. “Sa’Tong
is not our invention, if that is what you are asking. It was brought to us, as it was brought to most of the other starfaring races of the known galaxy, by the one we know as the
chaaz’braan.”

Taf made a small motion with hisher left hand. A moment later, another alien materialized to hisher right. To Rice’s eye, it looked very much like a large and incredibly old frog standing upright on its hind legs.
“The
chaaz’braan
is the sole survivor of a race known as the
askanta
. Their world was destroyed by a force we call Kasimasta, or the Annihilator. The
askanta
had barely developed the means to travel beyond their planet when they were made extinct, but before this occurred, they were able to send away the one individual whom they valued the most.”

Rice stared at the holo. “And this
chaaz’braan
. . . he was a prophet? A messiah?”

“Not as such, no. A teacher, really, although the
askanta
regarded him as a holy figure. As do we all.”
Taf’s head rose upon hisher neck as heshe regarded the image with what appeared to be reverence.
“I might add that it is incorrect to refer to him in the past tense. He still lives, and resides in
Talus qua’spah
, in orbit above Hjarr.”
Heshe paused.
“Although my world has the honor of being his host, the
chaaz’braan
belongs to all worlds, for he has brought
Sa’Tong
to all races who have learned of its wisdom.”

“So . . .” Rice hesitated. “Am I to understand that
Sa’Tong
is the dominant religion . . . or belief, or whatever you call it . . . of most of the galaxy?”

“This is correct.”
The
chaaz’braan
disappeared, and Taf turned to face Rice again.
“Beginning with the
hjadd
, the starfaring races of the Talus received its teachings, one after another, over the course of many years. Sometimes directly from the
chaaz’braan
, but more often by passing it along to one another.”
Heshe made an open-handed gesture to the reverend.
“There is nothing to fear. It is possible to remain faithful to one’s own religion and also adhere to the Codicils. To be truthful, though, I should tell you that most races tend to abandon their former beliefs, particularly when it comes to contradictory notions that God is omniscient, infallible, and the sole creator of the universe.”

“I doubt humankind will accept this quite as readily as you think,” Rice said, more defensively than he intended.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.”
The
hjadd’s
head swung back and forth.
“However, that will not be for you to decide. A
Sa’Tong-tas
has already been given to one of your own kind . . . the young man who came to you a few days earlier. If you had listened to him . . .”

“I didn’t know.” Something cold clutched at Rice’s stomach as he realized what he’d done. “God forgive me . . . I didn’t know.”

Taf said nothing for a moment, yet it seemed to Rice as if the
hjadd
ambassador was regarding him with pity.
“God has nothing to do with this, Reverend . . . or at least not as you now perceive the meaning of your own existence. When you come to realize that the hand of God is felt in the actions of each and every person around you, perhaps then you will see things differently.”

Then, without so much as a farewell, Jasahajahd Taf Sa-Fhadda disappeared, leaving Rice alone in a dark room which offered no further answers, but only questions.

 

 

 

“And that was it?” Cosenza stared at the young minister. “That was all the alien told you?”

While Rice had been telling his story, he’d gradually bent over into a weary slouch, his elbows resting on his knees as he gazed down at the sacristy floor. When the deacon spoke, though, he looked up again, and for the first time Cosenza saw the haunted look in his eyes.

“ ‘That was all’?” Rice echoed. “That wasn’t enough? Didn’t you hear a thing I just said?”

“Enough to recognize it as utter blasphemy.” Cosenza’s voice was cold. “I’m surprised . . . appalled, really . . . that you listened for as long as you did. If it had been me, I would’ve walked straight out of there, and told my congregation—”

“What congregation?” Rice’s lips twitched into a humorless smile. “Yours, back in Milan? Mine was gone even before I set foot in that room. What am I supposed to do . . . stand on a crate in front of Government House and denounce the
hjadd
as being in league with the Devil?”

“That’s a possibility. If you don’t have a congregation . . .”

“ ‘Then you find one.’ Yes, I’ve heard that pearl of wisdom before.” Rice shook his head. “Let me tell you what I did instead. I came back here and spent the rest of the day thinking about everything Taf told me. And that night, I sat down and wrote that sermon.”

He nodded toward the papers in Cosenza’s lap. “You said that it was a correct interpretation of Church doctrine. I agree . . . But the truth is, I didn’t write it for my parishioners so much as for myself. I wanted to put down on paper, with my own hand and in my own words, what we Dominionists hold as being our articles of faith. That God created Man in His own image, that we are His chosen people, and that it is His will that we extend His dominion across the galaxy.”

Rice looked away from Cosenza, his gaze coming to rest upon the Dominionist crucifix on the wall above the deacon’s head. “I suppose you’re right. I could have stood on a box and issued this sermon in a public place. At the very least, I could’ve delivered it from the pulpit on Orifiel morning, to the handful of parishioners who still show up for services. But I didn’t . . . and now that I’ve told you everything that happened, I know why.”

He took the sermon back from Cosenza. “And that’s because I no longer believe it myself,” he said, then he tore it in half. “It makes no sense. Not a word of it.”

Cosenza stared at Rice, not quite knowing what to say. “Reverend . . . Grey . . . you can’t honestly think that . . .”

“Yes, I can.” Rice let the papers fall to the floor, where they lay like dead leaves scattered at their feet. “In fact, if honesty is the issue, then I have to . . . because what good is religion if it isn’t about truth? Faith alone is not enough. There must also be . . .”

“Grey . . .” Cosenza reached forward to take Rice’s hands in his own. “Reverend, pray with me. Please.” Before Rice could respond, the deacon lowered his head, closed his eyes. “Lord, we ask that you be with us now, as we beg your forgiveness for . . .”

“No.” Rice pulled his hands from Cosenza’s grasp. “I’m sorry, but I can’t . . . I can’t do this anymore.” He stood up from his chair. “The next time I pray, it will be . . . well, I think it’ll be to a God that you don’t understand.”

As Cosenza watched in horror, Rice reached behind his neck and unclasped the gold chain that held his crucifix. Cupping the cross and chain in his hands, he carefully placed them on the chair. “I must be leaving now,” he said quietly. “I trust you’ll be able to find someone to take my place.”

And then he turned and walked out of the sacristy, leaving Cosenza with the symbols of his lost religion.

 

 

 

Grey Rice left the church that same day. He returned to the parsonage and packed up his personal belongings, and by late afternoon a shag wagon pulled up in front of the cottage. Cosenza silently watched from a church window as the driver helped the former minister load his bags and boxes onto the back of the wagon. Just before he climbed aboard, Rice looked back at the church. Spotting Cosenza, he raised his hand in farewell, but the deacon refused to acknowledge him; instead, he deliberately turned his back to the window. A few moments later, he heard the rain-muffled creak of wagon wheels as they moved away from the parsonage.

Cosenza went upstairs to the second floor of the church, where the pastor’s private study was located. Apparently there was nothing there that Rice had wanted to take with him, because the office remained just as he’d left it. Sitting down at the desk, the deacon spent a few minutes composing a brief hyperlink letter to the elders, informing them that Rice had decided to resign from the ministry and that Cosenza himself would stay on Coyote indefinitely, or at least until the matter was resolved and a permanent replacement for Rice had been found.

Cosenza sent the message, then he put on his hat and coat and left the church. Following the vague directions Rice had given him, the deacon made his way across the university campus. The rain had stopped by then, but the sky remained overcast, the last light of day cold upon the soggy ground. Climbing a small hill behind a baseball field, Cosenza found a place where he could see the
hjadd
embassy, a grey edifice that squatted among the trees just a short distance beyond the university.

The deacon stared at the compound for a long time, trying to find the words for the thoughts that moved through his mind. When he finally spoke, his voice was little more than a whisper, yet it wasn’t that of compassion but of complete and utter hate.

“Damn you,” he murmured. “Damn you to Hell.”

From the passenger windows of the gyrobus, the forests of Medsylvania appeared as a dense green carpet, flat and unbroken by hills, that extended as far as the eye could see. It was only after the aircraft flew across the Highland Channel, and the pilot dropped altitude, that Hawk saw the first sign of habitation: a broad meadow, like a bare spot in an otherwise unblemished rug, which appeared to have been cleared of brush. Even so, the settlement was almost undetectable from the air; there weren’t any boat docks on the channel, and its few dwellings were close to the tree line. He doubted that even satellites would have detected a human presence.

A faint bump from beneath the floorboards as the landing gear was lowered, then the rotors tilted upward and the gyrobus began its final descent. In the seat next to him, Melissa quietly took his hand. Hawk gave her a reassuring squeeze; she forced a smile, but there was no mistaking the uncertainty in her eyes. She’d agreed to follow him on this journey into parts unknown, and that was more than he could have reasonably expected; Hawk just hoped that her loyalty hadn’t been misplaced.

Looking around the passenger compartment, he could tell that Melissa wasn’t the only one having second thoughts. Of the dozen men and women who’d boarded the aircraft in New Boston, few remained unruffled. Most of them gazed nervously through the windows, getting their first look at their new surroundings as their hands gripped their duffel bags and backpacks. No one had been told exactly where they were going or how long they would be there, only that a fat paycheck awaited each of them in the end. And even though jobs were at a premium these days, not many had been willing to sign up for employment under such mysterious circumstances.

There was an abrupt jolt as the gyrobus touched down. Hawk expected to hear the rotors wind down, but apparently the pilot wasn’t planning to stop for very long. Instead, he twisted around in his seat to look back at his passengers. “All right, you’re here!” he yelled above the engine noise. “Make sure you’ve got all your stuff and that you haven’t left anything behind!”

As if to emphasize the point, he reached up to an overhead console to snap a toggle switch. A faint
pop
as the passenger hatch was unsealed, followed a few seconds later by a sudden rush of air as someone outside pushed it the rest of the way open. Seat belts clicked as the new arrivals pried themselves from their seats, everyone checking to see whether they’d forgotten any belongings. In the rear, a couple of master carpenters reached beneath their seats to retrieve the toolboxes they’d brought with them. Then, one by one, everyone stood up to shuffle out of the aircraft. Hawk instinctively ducked his head against the prop wash as he and Melissa walked down the steps and followed the others out from beneath the starboard nacelle.

The gyrobus had landed on the northwest side of the clearing, where the grass had been burned away to form an airstrip. A few yards away, a couple of men wearing identical red field jackets stood nearby. One of them raised a hand above his head, gesturing for the workers to come together. They waited until everyone had disembarked, but it wasn’t until the aircraft had lifted off again that one of them spoke.

“Okay, then . . . let’s make sure everyone is here who’s supposed to be here.” He consulted the datapad in his hand. “Sound off when your name is called. Arnold, Juliet . . .”

Melissa tentatively lifted her hand. “Here.”

Hawk tried not to smile. She hadn’t forgotten her alias; if anyone happened to ask, she had a phony ID to go with it, picked up on the black market in Liberty. Yet the foreman barely glanced at her; a quick nod, then he continued the role call. “Bronson, Mike . . . Everly, Tim . . . Kastner, Ann . . .”

As the foreman went down the list, Hawk took a moment to look around. Now that the gyrobus had departed, he could see the northern side of the clearing. A large, round structure, sixty feet tall but still little more than a half-finished wooden frame surrounded by scaffolds, stood near the tree line; scattered around it were stacks of lumber, bagged sand, and flagstone, and not far away was the tilted drum of a cement mixer. In the stillness of the late-spring morning, he heard hammers pounding at nails, the occasional whine of a power drill, the steady mechanical
thump
of a posthole digger.