The Pandora Sequence: The Jesus Incident, the Lazarus Effect, the Ascension Factor (16 page)

“We should have Council members on . . .”

“Rachel! You propose having your people at key positions? Why your people? What record of success do they have?”

“They’ve survived down here!”

Oakes fought to conceal anger. That had been a low blow. She implied that he had remained safely ensconced shipside while she and her friends risked Pandora’s perils. A reasonable tone was the only way to meet that challenge.

“I’m down here now,” he said. “I intend to stay. I will submit to your questions at any mutually acceptable time, despite the fact which we all know—time taken to debate our problems could be used to better advantage for Colony as a whole.”

“Will you answer our questions today?”

“That’s why I called this meeting.”

“Then what’s your objection to having an elected Council which . . .”

“Debating time, just that. We don’t have the time for such a luxury. I agreed with those who objected that this meeting took us away from more important work, from food. But you insisted, Rachel.”

“What’re you doing over on Black Dragon?” That was the objectionable perimeter guard down in the audience, taking a new tack now.

“We are attempting to build another foothold for Colony over on Dragon.”

Reasonable . . . reasonable,
he reminded himself.
Keep your voice reasonable
.

“Dividing your energies?” Rachel Demarest demanded.

“We are using new clones provided by the ship’s facilities,” he said. “Jesus Lewis is out there now directing the effort. I assure you that we are risking only new clones who fully understand the nature of their involvement.”

Oakes smiled at Rachel Demarest, recalling Murdoch’s jocular admonition: “A few lies don’t hurt when you’ve given them some truth to admire.”

Turning back to face the audience, Oakes said: “But this diverts us from the orderly resolution of our meeting. Rather than waste our time this way, we should take the issues one at a time.”

His announcement about the attempt at Dragon had served its purpose, though. His listeners (even Rachel Demarest) were absorbing the implications with varying degrees of shock.

Someone away in the right rear quadrant of the room shouted: “What do you mean new clones?”

Silence followed his demand, a waiting silence which said it spoke a question in the minds of most.

“I’ll let Jesus Lewis speak to that at another meeting. It’s a technical question about matters which have been under his direct supervision. For now, I can say that the new clones are being bred and conditioned to defeat the perils we all know exist out on Dragon.”

There: Lewis was prepared with subtle lies and half truths. The injection of rumors and key elements of their prepared story into Colony’s grapevine would tie this issue down. Most people would accept the prepared story. It was always better to know that someone else was going into danger, sparing you that necessity.

“You didn’t answer our question about rest and recuperation,” Rachel Demarest accused.

“You may not realize it, Rachel, but the schedule of shipside R & R is the most important issue before us today.”

“You’re not going to buy us off with shipside time!” she said. She was clenching her wand with both hands, pointing it at him like a weapon.

“Again, I am aghast at your limited perception,” Oakes said. “You really are not fit to be making the decisions which you ask the power to make.”

At this direct attack, she backed two steps away from him, glared into his eyes.

Oakes shook his head sadly. “You have a friend down there brave enough to state the essential problem . . .” Oakes pointed down at the perimeter guard who sat in red-faced anger. (Have to watch that one. A fanatic for sure.) “. . . but not brave enough nor perceptive enough to see the full implications of his emotional outburst.”

That did it. The man was on his feet and shaking a fist at Oakes. “You’re a false Chaplain! If we follow you, Ship will destroy us!”

“Oh, sit down!”

Oakes used almost the full amplification to drown out the man’s voice. The sound-shock provided the man’s companions with the interval to pull him back into his seat.

Turning down the amplifier, Oakes asked: “Who among you asks what I ask? An obvious question: Where did WorShip originate? With the ship. That ship!”

He thrust a pointing finger ceilingward. “You all know this. But you don’t question it. As a scientist, I must ask the hard physical questions. Some among you argue that the ship has been motivated by the wish to save us—a beneficent savior. Some of you say WorShip is a natural response to our savior. Natural response? But what if we are guinea pigs?”

“What are your origins, Oakes?”

That was Rachel Demarest again.
Beautiful
. She could not have performed better for him had she been programmed. Didn’t she know that by the best guess, the naturals outnumbered the clones almost four to one?—perhaps even more. And she already had admitted to being a clone.

“I was a child of Earth,” Oakes said, and once more his voice was its most reasonable. He looked directly at her, then back at the audience. A little barbering of the truth was called for now. No need to bring up the fact that old Edmond Kingston had chosen him as successor. “Most of you know my history. I was taken by the ship and trained as Chaplain/Psychiatrist. Don’t you understand what that means? The ship directed my training to lead WorShip! Don’t any of you find something strange in this?”

Right on cue, Rachel intruded: “That seems the most natural . . .”

“Natural?” Oakes allowed free reign to his rage. “A mirror and recorder would have done just as good a job as such a Chaplain! If we have no free will, our WorShip is sham! How can the ship expect to condition me for such a task? No! I question what that ship tells us. I don’t even doubt. I question! And I don’t like some of the answers.”

This was public blasphemy on a scale few of them had ever imagined. Coming from the Chaplain/Psychiatrist it amounted to an open revolt. Oakes allowed the shock to become well seated in them before hammering it home. He raised his face to the domed ceiling and shouted: “Why don’t you strike me dead, Ship?”

The hall became one long-held breath while Oakes turned and smiled at Murdoch, then turned the smile on his audience. He reduced the amplifier volume to the minimum required for reaching the hall’s extremities.

“I obey the ship because the ship is powerful. We are told to colonize this planet? Very well. That is what we are doing and we are going to succeed. But who can doubt that the ship is dangerous to us? Have you had enough food lately? Why is the ship reducing our food supplies? I am not doing this. Send a deputation shipside if you wish to verify this.” He shook his head from side to side. “No. Our survival requires that we depend as little as possible upon the ship, and . . . eventually, no dependence upon the ship at all. Buy you with shipside time, Rachel? Hell no! I intend to save you by freeing you from the ship!”

It was a simple matter to read the majority reaction to this challenge. He might appear to be a fat little man but he was braver than any of them, dared more than the bravest among them . . . and he was risking new clones (whatever they might be). He was also going to feed them. When it came time for the question: “Put me out of office or continue me. But no more of this democracy and Council crap.” When it came time for that, it was clear they would support him by acclamation. He was their brave leader, even against Ship, and few could doubt it now.

Both Lewis and Murdoch argued for a bit more insurance, though, and Oakes knew it would do no harm to follow their script.

“It has been suggested that we introduce complicated and time-consuming forms into our survival efforts,” Oakes said, his voice tired. “The ones who propose this may be sincere but they are dangerous. Slow reactions will kill us all. We are required to act more swiftly than the deadly creatures around us. We cannot wait for debate and group decisions.”

As both Lewis and Murdoch had insisted she would do when faced with defeat, Rachel Demarest tried the personal attack. “What makes you think your decisions will save us?”

“We are alive and Colony prospers,” Oakes said. “My first effort here, my primary reason for being here, is to direct a crash program to increase food production.”

“No one else could do what . . .”

“But I will!” He allowed just a touch of mild reproof into his tone. Anyone who could defy Ship could certainly solve the food problem. “We all know that I did not make those decisions which killed our loved ones on Dragon. If I had been making those decisions, we might still be alive and growing out there.”

“What decisions? You talk about . . .”

“I would not have wasted our energy trying to understand life forms which were killing us! Simple sterilization of the area was indicated and Edmond Kingston could not bring himself to order it. He paid for that failure with his life . . . but so did many innocents.”

She still wanted her reasonable confrontation.

“How can you fight what you don’t understand?”

“You kill it,” Oakes said, facing her and lowering the amplification. “It’s that simple: You kill it.”

Chapter 29

There is fear in the infinite, in the unlimited chaos of the unstructured. But this boundless “place” is the never-ending resource of that which you call talent, that ability which peels away the fear, exposing its structure and form, creating beauty. This is why the talented people among you are feared. And it is wise to fear the unknown, but only until you see the new-found fearlessness which identity beautifies.

—Kerro Panille,
Translations from the Avata

FOR A concentrated surge of time, Hali Ekel stood at the inner ring of the throng and stared up at the three men so cruelly suspended. It was a nightmare scene—the blood, the dust, the orange light which threw grotesque shadows on the doomed men, the sense of latent violence in every movement around her.

I’m an observer, observer, observer . . .

Her chest hurt when she breathed and she could smell the blood dripping from Yaisuah’s nailed feet.

I could save him.
She took one shuffling half-step forward.

Don’t interfere.
Ship’s command stopped her. It was not in her to disobey that command. The conditioning of WorShip was too strong.

But he’ll die there and he’s just like me!

He is not just like you.

But he’s . . .

No, Ekel. When the time comes, he will remember who he is and he will go back just as you will go back. But you two are profoundly different.

Who is he?

He is Yaisuah, the man who speaks to God.

But he . . . I mean, why are they doing this to him? What did he do?

He reported his conversations. Now, they try to move God in this way. Observe. This is not the way.

God? But God is Ship and Ship is God.

And the infinite is infinite.

Why won’t you let me save him ?

You could not save him.

I could try.

You would only inflict pain on that old flesh which you have borrowed. That flesh has enough pains. Why would you want to make it suffer more?

It occurred to her then that there might be another consciousness waiting somewhere to re-enter this body. Borrowed. She had not thought of it that way. The idea made her intensely aware of responsibility toward the body. She forced her attention away from the dangling figure of Yaisuah—those bleeding feet and palms.

The other two men began struggling against their restraints. Hali saw the cruel reason behind this torture then. In time, they would smother. Their chest muscles would fail and respiration would stop. The roped men pushed their feet against the wooden uprights, trying for leverage, seeking another few blinks of life.

One of the armored men saw this and laughed. “Look at the thieves squirm!”

Someone in the crowd behind Hali jeered: “They’re trying to steal a little more time!”

One of the roped men looked down at his armored tormentor and groaned: “You’d hang your own mother.” He gasped for another breath, and Hali saw the effort of it in his chest muscles. As he exhaled, he moved his head feebly toward Yaisuah. “This man here did nothing illegal . . .”

The armored man swung his spear butt and smashed the speaker’s knees. The thief sagged and writhed in a final rattling agony. As he did this, Yaisuah stirred and turned toward him.

“Today, you go home with me,” Yaisuah said.

It was said in a low tone, but most of the crowd heard him. The words were repeated for some few on the outskirts who had missed it.

The armored man laughed, said: “Bullshit!” He swung his spear butt once more and broke the other thief’s knees. This man, too, collapsed in a spasm of choking gasps.

Yaisuah lifted his head, then called out: “I’m thirsty.”

The spear-swinger looked up at him. “The poor boy’s thirsty! We should give him something nice to drink.
^”

Hali wanted to turn away, but could not move. What had made these men into such beasts? She searched around her for something in which to give the dying man a drink.

Once more, Ship warned her:
Let this happen, Ekel! This is a necessary lesson. These people must learn how to live.

Some of the crowd began to leave. The show was over. Hali found herself alone on one side of the dying man, only a few women across from her . . . and the armored guardians of this torment. A young boy came running up with a jug which he handed to the armored man who had smashed the knees of the thieves. Hali saw a coin passed to the boy. He bit it and turned away, not even looking at the condemned men.

The armored man fastened a rag to the end of his spear, poured some of the jug’s contents on it and pushed the rag up to the dying man’s mouth.

Hali detected the odor of acetic acid.
Vinegar!

But Yaisuah sucked at the rag hungrily. The moisture spread across his cracked and bloody mouth. As the rag was pulled away, he slumped forward, once more unconscious.

An older man across from Hali called out: “He’d better die before sundown. We can’t leave him up there for the Sabbath.”

“Easily done.” The armored man had taken the rag from his spear. He turned, ready to swing it against Yaisuah’s knees. In that instant, the light faded, darkness spread over the landscape. A moan spread through the crowd. Hali glanced up, saw a partial eclipse behind the clouds.

A young woman broke from the crowd opposite Hali and grabbed the soldier’s spear.

“Don’t!” she cried. “Let him be. He’s nearly gone.”

“What’s it worth to you?”

The young woman looked up at Yaisuah, who took this moment to twist in delirium. She looked back at the spearman. Her back was to her companions and she faced only Hali as she lifted the spearman’s hand and placed it on her breast inside her robe. At that instant, Yaisuah arched his back against the wooden upright and called out: “Father! Father, why have you forsaken me?”

A great breath shuddered through him. His eyes opened, his gaze directly on Hali.

“It is finished,” he said. He fell forward, eyes still open, and did not take another breath.

The abrupt hush was shattered by the wailing of a woman in the group across from Hali. Others joined in, tearing at their garments. The armored man took his hand away from the young woman’s breast.

Hali stood fixed in place, staring up at the dead man. As she looked, the sunlight returned. A wind picked up the hem of her robe; it chilled her. She could see the armored men moving off, one of them with an arm around the shoulder of the young woman who had stopped the spear blow. Hali turned away and headed down the hill, unable to watch more. She spoke to Ship as she moved.

Ship?

Yes, Ekel?

Is there a history of this event in the shipside records?

It is there for the asking. You who were raised shipside have not had much reason to ask, especially those of you whose ancestors came from places where this was not common knowledge.

Is this real, him dying there just now?

As real as your flesh waiting shipside.

She felt the tug of that remembered flesh then. This tired old body was such a poor vehicle by comparison. She felt joints aching as she stumbled down the hillside.

I want to go back, Ship.

Not yet.

If Yaisuah was a projection, why didn’t his body disintegrate when he died?

Active imagination supports him. It is essential to such phenomena. If I were to forget about the you that is shipside or the you that is here, the forgotten flesh would disappear.

But he’s dead. What good is it to keep his flesh intact?

The survivors require something to bury. They will return to his tomb one day and find it empty. It will be a marvel. They will say he returned to life and walked from his tomb.

Will he do that?

That is not part of your lesson, Ekel.

If this is a lesson, I want to know what happens to him!

Ahhhh, Ekel, you want so much!

Won’t You tell me?

I will tell you this: Those who remember him travel this world over teaching peace and love. For this they suffer murder and torture and they incite great wars in his name, many bloody events even worse than what you have just seen.

She stopped. There were rude buildings just ahead and she felt that she would be more protected in among them. They were more like . . . corridors, like Ship’s own passages. But she was filled with outrage.
What kind of a lesson is this? What good is it?

Ekel, your kind cannot learn peace until you are drenched in violence. You have to disgust yourselves beyond all anger and fear until you learn that neither extortion nor exhortation moves a god. Then you need something to which you can cling. All this takes a long time. It is a difficult lesson.

Why?

Partly because of your doubts.

Is that why You brought me here? To settle my doubts?

There was no response and she felt suddenly bereft, as though Ship had abandoned her. Would Ship do that?

Ship?

What do you hear, Ekel?

She bent her head, listening. Hurried footsteps. She turned. A group of people rushed past her down the hillside. A young man hurried behind this group. He stopped beside Hali.

“You stayed the whole time and did not curse him. Did you love him, too?”

She nodded. The young man’s voice was rich and compelling. He took her hand.

“I am called John. Will you pray with me in this hour of our sadness?”

She nodded and touched her lips pretending that she could not speak.

“Oh, dear woman. If he had but said the word, your affliction would have passed from you. He was a great man. They mocked him as the son of God, but all he claimed was a kinship to Man. ‘The Son of Man,’” he said. That is the difference between gods and men—gods do not murder their children. They do not exterminate themselves.”

She sensed then in this young man’s manner and his voice the power of that event on the hillside. It frightened her, but she realized that this encounter was an important part of what Ship wanted her to experience.

Some things break free of Time,
she thought.

You can come back to your own flesh now, Ekel,
Ship said.

Wait!

John was praying, his eyes closed, his grip firm on her hand. She felt it was vital to hear his words.

“Lord,” he said, “we are gathered here in your name. One in the foolishness of youth and the other infirm with age, we ask that you remember us as we remember you. As long as there are eyes to read and ears to hear, you will not be forgotten. . . .”

She listened to the earnestness of the prayer as it unraveled from his mind. The firm touch of his hand pleased her. There were faint veins on his eyelids which trembled as he spoke. She did not even mind the universal stink which came from him as it came from all of those she had encountered here. He was dark, like Kerro, but he had wild, wiry hair that framed his smooth face and accented his intensity.

I could love this man!

Careful, Ekel

Ship’s warning amused her as much as her own thought had surprised her. But one look at the old, liver-spotted hand that John held reminded her she walked in another time. This was an old woman’s body which enclosed her awareness.

“. . . we ask this in Yaisuah’s name,” John concluded. He released her hand, patted her shoulder. “It would not be good for you to be seen with us.”

She nodded,

“Soon we will meet again,” he said, “at this house or that, and we will talk more of the Master and the home to which he has returned.”

She thanked him with her eyes and watched him until he turned a comer and was gone among the houses below her.

I want to go home, Ship.

There came a moment of blankness and, once more, the tunnel passage, then the lab’s dazzling lights pained her eyes after the Earthside dusk.

But those other eyes weren’t the same as these eyes!

She sat up, feeling the vital agility of this familiar flesh. It reassured her that Ship had kept the promise to return her to her own body.

Ship?

Ask, Ekel.

You said I would learn about interfering with Time. Did I interfere?

I interfered, Ekel. Do you understand the consequences?

She thought about John’s voice in prayer, the power in him—the terrible power which Yaisuah’s death had released. It was unleashed power, capable of joy or agony. The sense of that power terrified her. Ship interfered and this power resulted. What good was such power?

What is your choice, Ekel?

Joy or agony—the choice is mine?

What choice, Ekel?

How do I choose?

By choosing, by learning.

I do not want that power!

But now you have it.

Why?

Because you asked.

I didn’t know.

That is often the case when you ask.

I want joy but I don’t know how to choose!

You will learn.

She swung her feet off the yellow couch, crossed to the screen and keyboard where this terrifying experience had begun. Her mind felt ancient suddenly, an old mind in a young body.

I did ask; I started it . . . back in that ancient time when all I wanted was Kerro Panille.

She sat down at the keyboard and stared into the screen. Her fingers strayed over the keys. They felt familiar, yet strange. Kerro’s fingers had touched these keys. She saw this instrument suddenly as a container which held raw experiences at a distance. You did not have to go in person. This machine made terrible things acceptable. She took a deep breath and punched the keys: ANCIENT HISTORY RECORDS—YAISUAH/JESUS.

But Ship was not through intruding.

If there is any of it you wish to see in person, Ekel, you have but to ask.

The very thought sent shudders through her body.

This is my body and I’m staying in it.