A Song Called Youth (118 page)

“Hand probably pissed his pants.”

Torrence laughed. “Yeah, probably.” He’d needed this, to get his mind off the reprisals. Needed to “Dance with Mr. D.”

The autotank met them at the hut, a different critter now. Like a big, friendly, domesticated rhino, waiting for another command. Its engine heat feeling like body heat. They heard the yawing whoop of approaching sirens, coming from the North.

Bibisch came out of the hut carrying the little computer unit. Norman Hand, pale and hugging himself, came out just behind her. He was talking into a little hand-held voice recorder. Something about, “The sirens of SA police approaching—”

“They’re on the far side of the camp,” Torrence said. “We’re near the old refining plant on this side—it’s about a quarter mile south of here. I think we can hide the tank in there, but we’ll make ’em think we headed west.” He was already putting on his headset, calling for a decoy hit off to the west of camp.

Roseland listened to the sirens. Sounded like Torrence was right. They had time. Just enough. It would take the SA commanders a while to figure out what had happened. They’d figure it out, though: much of war now revolved around strategies of signal transmission, signal interference, and electronic co-optation.

They climbed onto the back of the autotank, clinging behind the turret as Bibisch gave the autotank new commands and Hand babbled into his recorder. The tank whined and moved off, rumbling to the south, full speed.

Roseland smiled. They were going to keep this autotank, hide it till it was needed. And, oh yes, it was going to be needed.

In fact, they used it again as they fled the camp. On the way out, they told it to blow up the giant TV screen.

It did. And that was a beautiful sight, too.

Paris, SA HQ.

Jebediah dropped the videodisc into the player and turned to the small audience in the conference room. Watson, Giessen, Klaus, and a dozen lesser functionaries were seated around the table, facing the big screen. The room was white, windowless, lit brightly; it could have been any time of the day or night. It was ten p.m.

Our Jebediah, Watson thought, ought to be in bed, and not up here running the show.

He was beginning to fear the boy.

The screen flickered alive, making Watson remember the pirate transmission that had gone out to most of the functioning televisions in Paris via the unit in the refugee camp; and he remembered the stolen autotank that had shattered the giant TV screen. A lot of money down the drain.

Worse, the propaganda that had gone out on the pirate transmissions. The cheering when the resistance vermin had escaped . . . 

The refugee camps were hotbeds of potential trouble. They had to be cleaned out. The wheat separated from the chaff, and storehoused; the chaff disposed of.

“The Reverend Crandall,” Jebediah said, “has made an announcement that will shortly be sat-transed to the entire world.” His voice reverent but confident. His uniform spotless. Remarkable poise, too, for a child. His father, Watson supposed, had drilled him in this little speech. “It is an announcement that will seem to some people to be only of scholarly interest. But other people will be very angry when they hear it. Eventually, everyone will see what it means: a change in the way we think about God and our place in God’s Plan.” He looked at them gravely, then hit the play button. “What you’re going to see is a revelation from God.”

As Crandall’s image appeared on the TV screen, Jebediah went to stand respectfully to one side.

On the screen, “Crandall” was saying that thirty years of research by Church scholars had at last come to fruition. Through archaeology, documentation study, and a dozen other scholarly means, they’d come at last to the incontrovertible conclusion: the Bible, as we know it, is not truly the Bible. “We have positive proof,” Crandall was saying.

No. Crandall wasn’t saying it. In a power-grab, Watson and Klaus had murdered the real Crandall. Only they, of those in this room, knew that they were watching a lifelike computer animation; only they knew that Crandall was dead.

Watson had no interest in listening to Crandall’s speech. He’d written it himself, he’d heard it till he was sick of it. He’d given it to Jebediah and his father, and was gratified to see the way they’d taken it to heart. At the same time, he’d been unsettled by the boy’s fanatic conviction. His grasp on what “Crandall” was saying made Watson feel he was losing control, his project somehow co-opted by the boy.

Watson looked away from Jebediah, covertly watched the others to see what their reaction would be. Redesigning Christianity was an important step in the taking of power. They needed the philosophical reins, as well as the political ones . . . 

“Jewish conspirators,” the computer-generated Crandall was saying, “tinkered with the New Testament of the so-called King James Bible, and altered it to make it appear that Jesus was of Jewish origin. Further, they edited out those sections which confirm God’s plan for genetic purification.”

Giessen was reacting to Crandall’s revelations with a flaring of nostrils, a dilation of the eyes, a slight twitching of the hands. Watching him, Watson felt a thrill at his own power over Giessen’s mind.

“And now,” said the stunningly realistic animation of Crandall, “I have something precious to give to you. A direct quote from Jesus himself that has been lost to us for two thousand years! This quote came to us from the Damascan Scrolls, which were discovered by a team of our Church archaeologists two years ago and only recently translated. I repeat, what you are about to hear is a direct quote from Jesus Christ Himself: ‘I am the spark that lights the Flame of Purification. Let the miscegenists hide their faces from my light. Those who would interbreed besmirch the Divine Plan. Yea, verily I say unto you, those who do not recognize the Chosen Race are the whisperers of Satan, who would elevate animals to rule beside men. The Flame of Purification will burn away the tinder that is the Animal Races. Truly, the worshipers of false gods are those who would elevate animals; and those who would elevate animals are worshipers of Satan under another name. In my name, then, return them to God’s Judgment with the Flame of Purification; give them to Death who gives them to Judgment. Verily, this is my word. Write it in your hearts.’ ”

There were gasps in the conference room—the gasps of believers.

Watson allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. He had written those words, just as he had fabricated the Damascan Scrolls. Some would know it was a hoax, of course, and would say so, but the believers would believe anyway.

Crandall paused reverently, looking gravely out at them. “The teachings of our church are confirmed in the word of Jesus. In another passage, Jesus prophesizes of the Satan of the ‘Dog-Men’ who will be born in the southeast, in the place call Mecca . . . ’ This man, whom he calls ‘one of the five great Liars,’ will poison much of the world with his false doctrine. Clearly, Jesus is speaking of the man called Mohammed. His warning is clear, and his admonition to us about the worshipers of false gods, and those who would elevate animals—in other words, the lower races—to the status of men, is quite clear. Deliver them, said the Lord Jesus, to Death, so that Death may deliver them to Judgment . . . Our task is obvious.”

Watson glanced at Klaus. Saw the tension in the set of his jaw: Klaus was nervous about releasing the bit about Mohammed, the great Liar. “
We aren’t ready for a holy war,
” Klaus had said. “
Chances are, the Muslims won’t wait for us to carry out the ‘word of God.’ They’ll come after us. We aren’t strong enough yet.
”

“
The white Christians will close ranks around us,
” Watson had replied. “
This will polarize the world more, accelerate the whole process—we need the confrontation to knit us together, make people see their enemies clearly.
”

“
It’s lunacy. It would get out of hand, Watson. Play that bit for our people, if you want, but don’t release it to the general public . . . 
”

“Inarguable documentation,” Crandall was saying, “will be released in the near future to confirm the authenticity of these sources. In the meantime, I will be largely out of touch. I am going on Retreat to meditate on these revelations, and to ask God just how we are to realize these revelations in the world of men. In my absence, please regard Colonel Watson as my voice. I will be in close touch with him. God bless you all.”

The recording ended. Watson carefully didn’t look at Klaus. He could feel Klaus staring at him.

“You are going to release that to the public?” Giessen asked abstractedly, inspecting his manicure.

Watson said, “All but the last part about his retreat and my standing in for him.”

Giessen looked at him. “Are you quite sure he wants the rest of it released?”

“Quite sure,” Watson said coldly.

“But—this business about Mohammed. It is rather inflammatory. Bad politics . . . ”

Klaus snorted as if to say,
For a sane man, it would be obvious.

“And you are saying that the Reverend Crandall’s interpretation of the Newly Revealed Scriptures is false?” Jebediah demanded, sounding more like a white-bearded old dogmatist than a boy.

“Not at all!” Giessen put in hastily. “He has confirmed what I always knew in my heart! But—it’s a question of timing, of how and when it will be revealed—”

“That sort of concern is not your province,” Watson said sharply. “You are essentially a police investigator.”

“I thought that was your role as well,” Giessen said, his voice flat.

“No longer,” Watson said. “You have not been keeping up with developments.”

He smiled distantly at Klaus. Who merely stared back at him.

I’ll have to smooth things over with Klaus, Watson thought. And until then, I’d better watch my back.

“The world is changed,” Jebediah said suddenly. They all turned to look at him. His eyes glittered like an eagle’s. “Just as surely as it was changed when it rained for forty days and forty nights. Everything is new again. We have the word of God, the true word of God, for the first time.”

Watson had a sinking feeling, hearing that.
Can I really keep control of this?

But Giessen had clearly been moved by the boy’s words. There was a mystical streak in Giessen that, in its balancing counterpoint to his punctilio and pragmatism, was very German.

Giessen—The Thirst—stood, and said, “I . . . I feel ashamed that I have done so little. While Rick Crandall is on Retreat, we must do his work.”

“
God’s
Work,” Jebediah said.

Giessen nodded. “Yes. God’s work.” He smoothed down his coat jacket, tugged his tie into proper position and checked his watch. All signs he was about to launch into some sort of activity. “Truly God’s work. There are prisoners I have not interrogated. I will remedy this now. One of them, I feel, will lead me to the animal they call Hard-Eyes Torrence.”

He went briskly to the door, purposeful as the swish of a knife blade.

The Badoit Arcology, Egypt.

When—a week after his first visit—Steinfeld was brought back into Badoit’s office he had the feeling the meeting was continuing as if it had never been interrupted by his arrest. It was about the same time of day, the tea cart was there, Badoit wore more or less the same suit, and the same expression of friendly detachment.

“Please sit down, my friend,” Badoit said. “I would like first to apologize for keeping you in ‘house arrest.’ We informed your people you would be delayed in returning, but I am sure it was a great inconvenience to you.”

Steinfeld shrugged, and sat in the same seat he’d occupied before. “More like a vacation. I had a spa, movies, TV, a comfortable apartment, good food, and access to a swimming pool. And a masseuse.”

“And then there was the indignity of subjecting your mind to an extractor search . . . ”

“It’s a painless process. I’d have done it voluntarily. I didn’t mind. Because—I was prepared to open my mind, my heart to you, Shaikh Badoit.”

Badoit smiled thinly as he poured coffee for them. “You are the very soul of politesse. Very well: I take it you have forgiven me. Let us put it aside. You passed the extractor test with flying colors. The extractor insists that you are quite sincere.” He grinned, brief and bright as a flashbulb pop. “And not at all bent on sabotaging my organization from within. Some of my advisers had thought . . . well, no matter. The other investigations into your background confirmed everything you told me. You are really quite an honest man for a former Mossad agent.”

“I am not a Mossad agent,” Steinfeld said. He shrugged. “Hard as that may be to believe. I do some work in association with them. I am merely an antifascist organizer.”

“Ah.” He didn’t sound convinced. “You mentioned the television.” He passed Steinfeld coffee and a scone. “Did you see, on that television—about Damascus?”

“The announcement from the Reverend Crandall? The so-called Damascus Scrolls. Yes. Astounding. And this business about Mohammed—the gall of these people amazes me. They have made a great mistake. They’ve become overconfident. Arrogant. And stupid. They think the rest of the world is even stupider, apparently.”

“Precisely correct: they have made a great mistake in this fabrication. And they make a mistake to malign the Prophet. They pushed me into commitment, my friend. You will have your freedom, and the help you require—up to a point.”

“Up to which point, Shaikh Badoit?”

“To begin with, up to about four-hundred-thirty million in world currency, to fund your resistance organization. Or you may have it in securities, gold bullion, or bank transfer to any account you name.” He sipped coffee. “Later I hope to double that amount.”

FirStep, The Space Colony.

Russ Parker and Claire Rimpler stood on the podium platform under the inverted cradle of the sky—that was also the ground, if you walked far enough—and waited for the dedication to get under way.

The temporary platform was made of pressed recycled paper—the artificial-cellulose pulp they used for the printout clothing they wore—and it quaked a little under Lester’s rather heavy tread as he crossed to them, shook their hands for the Colony TV station’s cameras, and then went to the grass-blade-thin microphone taped to the podium. He spoke to the technicki crowd in Technicki argot; telling them that it was partly through Claire and Parker’s efforts that the new technicki-staff housing project had been completed in the Space Colony’s Open; that Parker had saved his life; that Claire Rimpler was a person who understood workers, who cared about them. That the housing here in the Colony’s Open—the parklike space in the Bernal Sphere that held the inside-out biosphere, complete with fresh air and sunlight and beneficial fauna—was a symbol of the new respect Colony Administration had for workers on every level.