Emprise (19 page)

But Driscoll did not yield to the considerable temptation to disclose what he had officially yclept the Avidsen-Lopez or AVLO drive. In his staid and occasionally stubborn way he deflected the attention of the questioners and derided their anxieties. Of course Star Rise will be ready, he said, and waited with equanimity for AVLO-P to prove him right.

AVLO-P was an unprepossessing cylinder fire metres in diameter and fifty metres in length, not counting the twin field antennae on the flat ends. Only one antenna would be used at a time; the forward for acceleration, the aft for deceleration.

Powered by a compact gas-turbine generator, the prototype was theoretically capable of a modest, sixty metres-per-second velocity, barely two-hundred-thousandths of the speed of light. But if it moved at all, the way would be clear to building a more powerful version.

The electronics and control subsystems could be tested adequately on earth. But the pushmi-pullyu could only be tested properly in a microgravity environment. In mid-year, AVLO-P was ferried up to the Orbital Operations Center by a Shuttle Q resupply mission. From there it was carried by a space tug on an elliptical journey into cislunar space.

At the apogee of 60,000 kilometres, the prototype was released from the tug. As the pilot maneuvered to a safe distance, the D Mod technician who had shepherded the prototype from Sriharikota to the test site readied the telemetry recorder and video camera. Chi authorization from PANCONTRAC, the tech transmitted a start-up command to AVLO-P.

And it moved.

There was no appreciable delay. The tech saw it through the eyepiece of his camera, as the cylinder was suddenly tracking against the background of stars. The pilot saw it on the telemetry display, as the velocity jumped smoothly from zero metres per second to a hair above sixty-seven.

“PANCONTRAC, this is Dr. Doolittle,” radioed the pilot with a smile in his voice. “The pushmi-pullyu can talk, repeat, can talk.”

“Hold on,” said the tech warningly. “There’s something wrong.”

That word had already reached Driscoll at PANCONTRAC through the telemetry. The profile for the first test called for thirty seconds of acceleration, a twenty-second coast phase, and thirty seconds of deceleration. The test clock had passed the one-minute mark, but the velocity was locked at sixty-seven. AVLO-P was not slowing down. Slowly but steadily, it was moving out of Earth orbit and leaving the tug behind.

The tech hurriedly keyed in the test Interrupt command and transmitted it, to no effect. “Negative on test abort,” radioed the pilot. “Shall we pursuer?”

There was a long moment between question and answer.

“Negative, Dr. Doolittle,” Driscoll said, with surprising good cheer. “She’s fueled for a whole test series. You won’t head her off within your operational range. Come on home. You’ve done your job for today.”

In time, Driscoll’s optimism proved justified. Analysis of the films revealed the spatter as, eight seconds into the test, a micrometeoroid impacted against the skin of AVLO-P. As chance would have it, the impact was in the general area of the logic package. While three-shift work on AVLO-A began, new three-body probability studies were begun to see whether the pushmi-pullyu would reduce the risk of collision with space debris as had been projected, or whether it would actually increase that risk past acceptable levels.

The studies gave provisional cause for optimism, and by the end of the year AVLO-A, with twice as powerful a drive as its predecessor, was put through a series of trials in high orbit. Even before those trials were completed, Driscoll had seen enough to satisfy him. With a sense of vindication long delayed, he contacted Rashuri to inform him.

The room behind Rashuri shown by the vidiphone screen was unfamiliar to Driscoll. “Where are you?” he asked, skipping the social preliminaries as he was wont to do even when on more friendly terms.

“Ah, Benjamin,” said Rashuri with a nod and a polite smile. “I had planned to call you this evening to discuss Star Rise with you.”

“You’ve heard, then,” said Driscoll, disappointed. “About the Assembly’s debate? Of course I heard. That’s why I’m here in Geneva, to gauge their concern.”

“What? We’re not talking about the same things. We have a drive for Star Rise. Which means we have a ship design and a tentative departure date. There are no more theoretical hurdles, just engineering ones.”

“Welcome news, if a bit tardy,” said Rashuri. “Tell me, sparing me details only engineers need to know—how fast is this ship to be?”

“Faster than the Sender vessel, we expect. Our goal is .71c, at which point you subjectively exceed the speed of light due to the effects of relativistic time dilation. If we can launch in 2020, which a lot of us here think is reasonable, we’ll intercept them almost 1.5 light-years out, and before they begin their deceleration.”

“What impact will the Assembly’s action have on your time-line?”

“What action?”

“The vote this morning. I thought you knew. They are concerned about the protocol for the encounter. The decision was made to require a special chamber for face-to-face meetings, with human environmental conditions on one side of a transparent barrier and MuMan on the other. In the Assembly’s judgment, it would not do to have either species hiding behind masks and special clothing.”

“We talked about this when we began work on Star Rise four years ago. We don’t know what their environmental needs are, and we can’t possibly allow for even a small fraction of the possibilities. You know we were planning on video contact—we have a self-contained, self-powered transceiver to give them for their end of the link.”

“Unlike the Assembly, you must be overlooking the work of Dr. Eddington.”

Driscoll’s mood had definitely soured. “That again? I thought you controlled the Assembly. How could this happen?”

Rashuri shrugged. “The issue was raised in Assembly with no prior warning. I lack the power to make them uninterested.”

“Do you mean to say that from now on I have to take this foolishness into account when making mission decisions?”

Rashuri nodded. “I mean just that.”

Since the first days of the decline, the authoritative voice and firm hand of the Reverend Cart Cooke had kept the peace in Deer Lake, Indiana.

Even before the sight of stony-faced refugees, survivors from Chicago or Indianapolis, wandering the roads became commonplace, even before the Secessions carved up the United States, even before the TV stations in Fort Wayne and South Bend fell silent, Cooke had been the closest thing to a civil authority the community could boast. Deer Lake had no marshal, no mayor, no town board, no post office, no fire department.

In fact, due to two centuries of farmers tinkering with the watershed, Deer Lake no longer even had a lake. There was only Cooke and his Full-Bible Millennial Missionary Church of God.

Cooke’s authoritative voice resounded from the pulpit not only at Sunday worship but at Tuesday Bible study and Thursday Witness night and, when needed, in the living room of a troubled family or behind the doors of his Contrition Chamber. Students in his New Life Academy experienced Cooke’s firm hand—most often gripping a stout wooden paddle—as often as was necessary to keep them forthright and God-fearing.

Between his two avenues of persuasion, Cooke held the allegiance of most of the residents of the scattering of rural homesteads. Even those who by dint of temperament or education would have disdained Cooke found that they could not afford the social isolation which came with separation from the Missionary Church.

It came as no surprise to Cooke’s followers (he, of course, called them God’s followers) when the much-despised secular world fell apart. The cities had brought it on themselves by harboring pornographers and adulterers, the Federal government by embracing a godless humanism.

In the days ahead, the godly would be tested, but they would not be punished, Cooke told those who filled the nave the Sunday after the Novak government fell. If they passed the tests, a time of redemption was near.

When the redemption did not come at the Millennium, as many expected it would, there was no outpouring of doubt. Cooke reminded them that it was not man’s place to set God’s schedule and told them that even in this life they were blessed.

For though travelers brought to Deer Lake stories which sickened women and angered men, Deer Lake itself remained largely untouched. Taking its identity from Cooke and its sustenance from the rich alluvial soils, the Deer Lake of 2016 was much like Deer Lake at any time in its last half-century. It survived, even thrived, a closed community self-sufficient in all things thought important: food, faith, and family.

If there were questions, Cooke answered them; if there was dissent, it was hidden from him. Thirty-nine-year-old Steve Jameson knew the rules as well as any. But he was intelligent and curious, neither of which was a sin but both of which were highly suspect. Intelligence allowed him to repair the shortwave radio his father had relegated to the attic at the turn of the century. Curiosity propelled him to use it.

When the radio told him of a message and a spaceship from the stars, he shared his excitement and his secret with his fifteen-year-old son, Thomas.

He never once considered the possibility that his son would carry that secret straight to the Reverend Carl A. Cooke.

Cooke found Jameson in his backyard, adding newly split wood to a cord braced between two oak trees.

“Reverend,” Jameson said with a grunt, bending over for another armful.

“Steven, you and I need to have a talk.”

“Talk away,” said Jameson, showing no sign of stopping.

“Carole and Thomas are waiting for us inside,” said Cooke.

That brought Jameson to a stop. “What’s this all about?” he asked. His ax stood where he had left it, one corner of the blade buried in the chopping block. He rested his hand lightly on the ax handle.

“You are filling your son’s head with false truths,” said Cooke. “You’ve confused him, troubled him. It needs to be resolved.”

“If my son and I have a problem we’ll work it out,” said Jameson, tightening his grip on the ax handle. “You’ve got no part in it.”

“Thomas came to me for help—and to ask me to help you.” Jameson lowered his head and spat in the dried and curled leaves at his feet. “All right. Let’s go talk.”

Thomas would not look at him; Carole met his glances with an expression of hopeful but wavering support. “
Of course I’m on your side
,” it said—”
But if you haven’t done anything why is he here?
”

“Now, Steven—do you affirm the power of God to banish evil?” Cooke asked.

“All we’re talking about is an old radio,” Jameson said plaintively. He looked to Carole. “Do you remember, on New Century’s Day Dad stayed home and listened for word of the Second Coming?”

Carole nodded tentatively.

“But whose spirit speaks through it—a Godly spirit or a Satanic one?” Cooke demanded. “You are old enough to remember that the air was full of evil.”

Jameson sighed. “I never said a ‘spirit’ is speaking through it. Trim, is that what you told him? Someone’s put a satellite in orbit. It either has men on it or it’s relaying a signal from men somewhere else on Earth.”

“Are these Christian men?”

“I think most of them are from India. Does it matter?” asked Jameson. “Can’t we listen and decide for ourselves about what they say?”

“What could they tell us that we don’t already know?” asked Cooke ringingly. From his shirt pocket he pulled a diminutive New Testament. “Isn’t everything we need contained in here?”

“fell him. Dad,” Thomas said suddenly. “Don’t be a Doubter.”

“Do you know where the radio is, Thomas?” asked Cooke. “If so, bring it to me.”

“Stay where you are,” Jameson said warningly, jumping to his feet. His son stopped on the first tread, licking his lips anxiously.

“Reverend, you stand for a lot in Deer Lake, but that doesn’t give you the right to come into my home and lecture me and give orders to my son and intimidate my wife,” Jameson said angrily. “If you want to see the radio, ask me. I’ll show it to you. If you’re brave enough to listen to what it has to say, come back at nine tonight and I’ll show you that, too.

“I’ll even point out the satellite that has the transmitter—it must be big because it’s as bright as Spica some nights. And when you’ve done those things we can sit down and try to figure out what it all means—that they’ve found life on another star, and that a ship is coming here from that star. But until then, we don’t have anything to talk about.” Jameson looked to his son. “And you, get out back and finish stacking that firewood you were supposed to split this morning.”

“You have no reason to be angry with the boy for telling me,” said Cooke.

Jameson smiled and shook his head. “I’m not. I’d have told you myself—I intend to tell everyone who’ll listen. But he skipped chores this morning to do it, and that I won’t have.” He looked back to Tom, still standing at the stairs. “Git!”

There were six of them there that night, Cooke and Jameson and Tom and Mel from the Co-op and the Housers from across the road. The signal was weaker because the orbital inclination of the Orbital Operations Center had carried it farther west over the intervening twenty-four hours, but the message was the same.

As the signal faded, they rushed outside so that Jameson could point out the bright point which was the satellite as it traced an arc toward the horizon, playing hide and seek behind the bare black limbs of the trees.

“What’s it mean. Reverend?” asked Mel, his breath a puff of white fog in front of his face. “Ask God for your answer, as I intend to,” said Cooke, and stumped off into the night.

“God loves us,” said Reverend Cooke, looking out over the packed pews of his church.

“Praise the Lord,” called one of the worshippers.

“God loves us so much He made us in His image.”

“Praise God.”

“God loves us so much He placed the Earth beneath us that we would not want and the heavens above us so that we would not forget His majesty and power.”

“Praise Him.”

“God loved us so much that He gave us alone among His creatures the gift of a soul and the promise of eternal life in Him. He gave us His only Son that we might find salvation even though we are sinners.”

“Forgive our sins, Lord.”

“Even though we stoned and beat and crucified His only Son, God promised that He would come again to bring Judgment on the wicked and confer eternal life on the blessed.”

“Praise His name.”

“I am of you and I am with you and I know that many hearts are troubled by the stories they have heard in these last weeks. There are stories that say that we are not God’s chosen. Though we know the Earth was made perfect for us, there are some who say this magnificent perfection is mere chance. Give us time, they say, and beings like men will walk all the worlds in God’s heavens.”

There was a scornful chorus of “No!” and some laughter.

Reverend Cooke looked out from his stage at the ten thousand gathered in the newly green meadow. “There are stories that such beings now call to us and come to us across the unimaginable voids of space. I say these stories are the lies of men who have separated themselves from God’s love. ‘In the last time there will be scoffers, following their own ungodly passions. These men revile whatever they do not understand, and by those things that they know by instinct as irrational animals do, they are destroyed. Woe to them!”’

The shouted answers, “Lies!” and “God loves us!” rolled over Cooke like an unchecked wave.

“Only One could call to us with the perfect mathematics of His creation. Only One could send His heralds across the vast empty spaces of His creation. Only One has made a solemn promise and only One can fulfill it. ‘I am coming soon, bringing my recompense, to repay every one for what he has done. I am the Alpha and the Omega, the first and the last, the beginning and die end.’ ”

“Sweet Jesus, take me,” cried a woman near the stage.

Reverend Cooke looked into the lens of the camera and through it into the homes of ten million of the United North’s forty-odd million inhabitants.

““He is coming with the clouds, and every eye will see Him, and all tribes of the earth will wail on account of Him.’ To His martyr and prophet Allen Chandliss and to all his children He has spoken. Hear His herald announce his coming: ‘Beloved of Earth, greetings. I have heard your prayers and have seen by your acts that you are one with your Father. Let my children rejoice at this the end of thy tribulations and at the joy which will enfold you. Let the sinners wail for the time of judgment comes. I am the Father that loves you and the Spirit that calls you and the Son that redeems you. Prepare for the rapture. I come to gather my children to me.”’

It was at a meeting called to evaluate the application of the United North to join the Consortium that Rashuri first heard the name of the Church of the Second Coming.

“I’d turn it down for one reason and one reason alone,” said Weddell. “The Second Comers scare me.”

“Explain,” said Rashuri.

“Their growth rate has been nothing less than phenomenal for a country with only class-C communications,” said Weddell. “They’ve siphoned off most of the membership of the Lake State Protestant denominations and a good fraction of the Catholics in the Northeast.”

“So this is more than a cult?” asked Rashuri.

It was Moraji who answered. “It has certain cultish qualities, Devaraja. There is a great impetus to proselytize, no notable tolerance for alternative views, much reliance on a single inspirational leader. Every meeting place has a dish antenna pointed at Cassiopeia, and every service closes with the worshippers listening with bowed heads to one full cycle of the Sender message. But its real strength comes from a successful appeal to long-held Christian hopes for the return of a Savior. The Church of the Second Coming provides a clear alternative to those uncomfortable with the future we project.”

“And you say that they have their own translation of the message,” Rashuri mused. “A very free translation,” said Weddell. “Cooke claims to have been guided by the Holy Spirit in evolving it.”

“And that is enough for them? He has no other proof?”

“He relies heavily on quotations from Revelation. His audience comes prepared to believe due to their belief in the inerrancy of Scripture. As the history of cults shows, clever and selective reading of the Bible can be used to support some very un-Christian beliefs.”

“Yet that doesn’t seem to be the case here,” said Rashuri. “The message seems primarily hopeful, and lacks the antitechnological bent of the Collapse churches.”

He picked up the small staplebound booklet before him on the table. “ ‘In the age of mystery, God spoke as from a burning bush. In the age of humanity, God spoke through His prophet John and His Son Jesus. In the age of technology, God speaks to us through the tools which we have created with the intelligence with which He has blessed us. So does our Father call us into the future.”’ Rashuri looked to Weddell. “You have not made clear why you are concerned.”

The PANCOMNET director shook his head. “I’m not the only one concerned. In any event, I don’t believe we should allow another strong factor to enter the global equation. With the degree of personal allegiance Cooke commands, should the Church continue its growth he could soon be in a position to hamper our activities. The only condition under which I can see us admitting the United North is if Cooke is taken out first.”

Rashuri raised an eyebrow in Moraji’s direction. “And do you concur?”

“No, Devaraja. The time at which the elimination of Cooke would have crippled the Church is already past. He is not the best at what he does, merely the first. And I doubt very much that he is dependent on our help for the Church’s continuing existence. The Church of the Second Coming will not obligingly go away.”

“You offer little hope.”

“Not at all, Devaraja. The Church’s growth has been as a fire burns in a dry valley. The valley is consumed—but the world does not blaze. Rains fall. A river stops its advance. The next valley is green. Less than one human in four professes Christian beliefs. The church will grow—but it will not consume us.”