Intelligent Design: Revelations to Apocalypse (6 page)

Perez looked back for Cloelius and found her in the middle of one of the dancing rings. At the base of the ship, the centurion, captain of the vessel, stretched out her hands and cried, “
Datum est verbum?
”

Is the word given?
Perez understood the phrase as requesting permission to depart. The centurion waited dutifully in her dark-red flight suit while the din of the drums and Terran voices escalated. Clematis stretched her arms above her head and belted out the expected phrase: “
Datur est verbum!
”
The word has been given.

With that, the drums increased even more, the centurion retreated onto the ramp below the bird-shaped ship, and it closed as the launch pad’s heavy mechanical gears and hydraulics slowly lifted the ship to the ceiling of the cavern, hundreds of feet above them.

Unbelievable … this never gets old.

The huge black ship rose silently in the air, looking like a falcon waiting to fly. After just a few minutes, while the dancing and drumming escalated even further, two large doors opened above the cavern. Wind flowed inside until the bottom of the launch pad sealed the opening with a loud clunk, leaving the ship on the surface. A minute later, the roar of engines carried through the reinforced metal launch pad and drowned out the sounds of drums and humans.

Cloelius came up behind her. “Perez? The pad will remain at the surface for a couple of hours to ensure that fuel residue, flames and vapors are cleared away by the atmosphere above.”

A public announcement broke through the din, and the drumming and dancing stopped. “
Qui me fecit, stella cadens circulum. Deinde cum dicit: quod stella cadens tacita consequi orbis!
”

A burst of cheers erupted and the drumming and dancing resumed. Perez took her time to translate the literal meaning in her head: “Mission Leader, Leader Ennius reports that
Silent Star Falling
has achieved orbit. Repeat:
Silent Star Falling
has achieved orbit.’ It is a great day for us all.”

Perez glanced around. Everyone was getting into the music and dancing. She joined in, but struggled to keep in step with the shorter, red-headed, pale-skinned, dark-eyed Terrans.
Latin, German, French … those were easy to learn. But dancing? I need more practice.

Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.
– Confucius

“…Yours in the Kingdom and the Power and the Glory, I of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit; both now and ever, and to the ages of ages. Amen.”

Roberta Joanne Riesman refocused her attention to the priest’s prayer. With so many prayers in a period of three hours, she had lost herself in thought.

“I knew so many things about him,” she said softly. At forty-five, it wasn’t her first funeral, not by a long shot, but it was the longest she’d ever experienced and the closest she’d endured in a long time.

“…Glory to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit. You are our God, who went down to Hades, to loosen the pains of the dead that were there; Give rest also to the soul of Your servant, O Savior …”

She sniffled. There were so many things she didn’t know about him.

Other wakes and funerals had moved her with their stories of a wonderful life, or a young soldier taken too soon. Last week, three firefighters in Yellowstone.

And next week? Does it matter?

Her shoes sank in the moist grass. Dark skies hung about her with no likelihood of clearing. The empty trees, muffled sounds of restrained sobs and coughs made everything so real. For any other funeral, she could have gone for an early morning run to shake off the pain, but she knew she could run forever and the pain would persist. This was not a normal funeral.

“Hiaki …”

Riesman wondered if the priest swinging incense around the closed casket indicated the end of the service. His low, somber voice drew her in and helped her hope that her lover had found peace. She had not and never would. Never again.

“…O God of all spirits and of every flesh, who did trod down death and overcome the devil, bestowing life on this Your world, to the soul of this Your servant, Hiaki Nakamura, departed this life, to You Yourself, O Lord, give rest in a place …”

Riesman looked beyond the priest to a throng of darkly dressed family members and friends of Dr. Hiaki Nakamura, brilliant mathematician, statistician, and theorist. A mild- mannered soul whose warm gaze, kind eyes and soft smile had melted her heart years ago when he joined her team. After years of working with him, she’d found her vacations annoying and had joined him in the field whenever he headed to a disaster area. His voice, humor, eyes, and touch held her heart with no chance of escape.

He can’t … I just can’t believe he’s gone.

“…establish the soul of His servant
,
Hiaki, departed from us, in the testings of the Just; give him rest in the bosom of Abraham; and number him among the Just, through His goodness and compassion as our merciful God.” The priest finished with the incense and now held Mrs. Nakamura’s hand, consoling her, while she and her two grown daughters stood by the closed casket.

Still monitoring her own breathing, Riesman’s hot tears fell again on her cheeks.

She found a well-worn tissue and wiped her eyes beneath her sunglasses. She didn’t need them to block out the sun but to cover the bloodshot eyes that would betray the depths of her despair. He’d been more than a friend, just short of a soul mate. The weeping widow and two daughters with their families aroused a mixture of grief and guilt. In an effort to distract herself, she rewound her conversation with her administrative assistant around an hour ago.

He’d reported that the FBI seal flashed across Nakamura’s computer screen, denying access. Hiaki’s sudden death probably prompted the response. It wasn’t unusual for them to confiscate computers when someone from FEMA or Homeland Security died as a result of an accident, but Hiaki’s heart attack, while tragic, was of natural causes according to the reports. As to what was on the computer, they had shared more secrets than the average employer-employee, so its loss did not concern Riesman. Suddenly aware that she was staring at the family, she looked away. The priest had finished, and already a long line of people queued to bid their last farewell. If she hadn’t been his boss, she would have left immediately.

You deserve better than that, Hiaki. I just wish we had more time.

One of her aides touched her gently, startling her from her thoughts. He held the umbrella for her and, with a nod, gestured her to move.

“Thank you, Peter.”

Her aides and protection detail were quiet, respectful, and, most of the time, invisible. Just as she liked it. She wiped her eyes and cheeks again and scanned the surroundings. Many people, dressed similarly to her detail, gave the same impression of being invisible. A man and woman to her left watched an interaction beyond her line of sight. Riesman sighed.

What’s the FBI doing here?

Unable to see what they were observing, Riesman reined in her wandering mind and focused on her feet. The wet grass was difficult to navigate, and the warm weather out of place for November in Cambridge, Massachusetts. With every step closer to the casket, her heart slowed and her breath shortened, as if an elephant was sitting on her chest. Riesman tried to shift her thoughts to the climate, to work, to anything but Hiaki and his family just ahead.

Hiaki’s smiling face with his caring eyes appeared in front of her.

Why did you leave? Years of super storms, flooding in the mid-west and Texas, volcanic activity in the Pacific Rim, melting polar caps … we were supposed to find the answers … something to do with miscalculating the planets’ orbits. Hiaki. Why?

She blinked her eyes, his face melted away, and she realized that she was shaking Hiaki’s grieving widow’s hand.

“I am so sorry for your loss, Dr. Nakamura. Your husband was a great scientist,” Riesman said, unable to look her in the eye, and grateful that her dark glasses hid her shame. The widow’s grip surprised her. Mrs. Nakamura gave Riesman a forced smile, then her eyes drifted to the casket.

“Thank you so much, Dr. Riesman, for coming today. Hiaki spoke very highly of you. He was fortunate to have a boss and friend like you for so many years.” The widow continued to hold her hand and gaze at the casket. Riesman’s mouth tightened and more tears brimmed in her eyes.

Oh God! Please help me!

Unable to say anything or to escape the woman’s grip, Riesman’s desperation built and her knees grew weaker by the second. Mrs. Nakamura finally released her hand and looked at her.

“I know you can only stay for a short time, so I put you near the back of the luncheon with some former co-workers. I hope you don’t mind.” The widow’s deep, brown tear-filled eyes swallowed Riesman up.

She fought the urge to flee and forced herself to smile, nod and then repeat the same sentence to everyone else down the family line: “I am so sorry for your loss. Please accept my condolences.”

It was the longest three minutes she’d experienced in some time. Her mind was running wild, trying to find some excuse to avoid going to the luncheon, when she caught sight of an older, light-skinned Hispanic man who looked familiar. He stood in the distance engaged in an intense conversation with a well-dressed, regal-looking man. A young woman who might have been his granddaughter stood beside him and held the man’s arm.

Riesman moved onto the road to obtain a better vantage point and noticed the two FBI agents watching the men as well. After a moment, she remembered why the man looked so familiar, and had he not been engaged in an argument, she would’ve run over and given him a huge hug. Suddenly, the couple left. The Hispanic man called after them in a tone laced with hostility—unusual for him from what she remembered.

“We’re not done here,
Sir
Pierce.”

He made the sarcasm quite clear. Riesman slowed her pace until she was sure she had accurately identified him.

No way! It’s impossible!

She stopped around eight feet away and stared at him while others worked their way around her. Other than the FBI, no one else had noticed the hostile interaction.

“Do you know him, ma’am?” her driver asked.

“Yeah. As I live and breathe, I know him,” she replied, pleasantly surprised by the chance meeting. She picked up her pace again and stopped before him. It took him a moment to realize who she was, then his anger evaporated, he smiled, and she embraced her old friend.

“Captain Anthony Perez! I never thought I would find you here! How are you, old man?”

She pulled back to take a better look, surprised at how fit he looked for his age. His arms, chest, and back felt as if they were made of stone. Even his face and neck had the chiseled look of a young man.

“It’s been a long time, Bobbie Jo.” In a matter of seconds, her old friend’s therapeutic voice eased her feelings of emptiness and guilt. She stepped out of his embrace and took him all in—black suit and tie, crisp white shirts, very short black cropped hair with only small patches of white betraying his age.

“Whatever you’re doing, I need to get some. I saw you over twenty years ago …”

“Twenty-three years, but who’s counting? I’ve been lucky with good genes and time for exercising.”

“And writing too, I hear.”

“One published book does not an author make,” he said sheepishly.

“Kind of the right thing, in the right place at the right time,” he added.

“I bet sales went through the roof when the New York Times called your work uplifting, enlightening, and thought provoking,” Riesman teased.

He nodded and looked down while he walked, his hands thrust into the pockets of his buttoned suit jacket. Even his voice sounded stronger than she remembered.

“That book is about fifteen years old and it was unusually successful. It allowed me an opportunity to forge ahead with a small practice and teaching. Still, you’re right. I did find some time per day to exercise, and I eat pretty well.”

“Well, it’s great to see you in spite of the circumstances.”

A sudden onslaught of emotions threatened to consume her, so she tried to find more questions to avoid her sadness. Unfortunately, she stalled as she remembered that Perez’s son and wife had been killed in a tragic car accident nearly twenty years ago when he dropped off the map. She thought he had a daughter but was afraid to ask. When his book came out, she’d found the courage to call him. He’d been gracious and kind, but graver than before.

“So, did you know Dr. Nakamura through work?” he asked, just as she was about to ask him the same question.

“Yes. He worked on my team. And how about you?” she asked quickly.

Breathe, Roberta. Just breathe.

“I worked with his wife several years back. A family matter on her side.”

Riesman glanced at him. Out of the thousands of discussions in the office, over dinner and breakfast, or in the bedroom, nothing registered about any family member having a mental health issue.

“Are you going to the luncheon? I plan on staying very briefly myself,” he asked.

Her driver held her car door open. She still couldn’t think of an excuse not to go, but her final answer surprised her.

“Yes.”

Perez smiled before walking away.

“I’ll see you there, Bobbie Jo.”

She watched him go, noting his determined yet relaxed gait and square backside. Though more than two decades had passed since they’d worked together at the Veterans’ Administration Hospital, she didn’t remember him being so solidly built. The two FBI agents followed him at a distance. While baffled as to why they were following her former boss, his physical appearance struck her as even stranger.

He’s got to be late fifties or more. How can he look like he’s thirty? I should read his book.

Peter’s voice brought her back. “Are we going to the luncheon, ma’am?”

“Yes,” she replied as she got into the car.