The War of Immensities (81 page)

He dashed out
of the tent, seeking another radio. The control tower—that was the
place. He would be able to get the best perspective of what was
happening from there. But already, once outside, he could see
plainly that the gunfire had all but ceased. Now there was just the
occasional flash and detonation amongst the dark buildings. There
were no longer voices yelling. The flares were slowly spluttering
out. Why weren’t his men reporting in?

“What’s going
on over there?” he bellowed at the nearest post. He could see
indistinct images of men moving, close enough to hear him and
respond, he was sure. Wagner hurried on. Evolution was
irresistible. His men would hold and overcome. The very thought was
in his mind when he was thumped in the middle of the back and fell
forward, tumbling into the mud at the bottom of a sewage ditch. He
tried to right himself, unable to comprehend what had happened. He
looked up, and saw Magambo standing at the edge of the ditch with a
pistol in his hand. The great stupid black man had not understood,
and had cut him down from behind. Straight out of the trees, these
dickheads, Wagner muttered in his disbelief as he tried to get to
his knees. He’d show the stupid bastard what superman meant. He was
about to stand when his boots slipped and he fell again. Then the
pain completely enveloped him.

Maybe Magambo
had fired again—he wasn’t sure what had happened. It just wasn’t
right. He was the next stage in evolution and surely it could not
end here, in the shit, like this. He fell forward on his face and
the last thing he knew was the disgusting taste of the slime that
filled his mouth and nostrils…

When the
soldiers burst in the door, Lorna emerged abruptly from what must
have been some sort of trance. She had been raving, saying her
stuff, as the crew called it, droning on and on for what must have
been hours, lost in her words and herself. She shook her head,
trying to shuffle her brain into reality. The autocue that she was
supposed to be reading was stalled, and she realised that it had
been for some time. She had never really needed it, and adlibbed
mostly, using the cue to remind herself of where she was up to from
time to time. But it had stopped and she went on, completely
unaided, robotic, as if she too needed someone to press her off
button.

The red light
showed the camera too was running, but there was no longer an
operator. Vaguely she remembered people leaving, but she had
continued, talking and talking, saying her stuff, over and over,
every time different but every time the same message.

“Go to the
focal point. Leave what you are doing and go. This is our last
chance and everyone must be there. Put down what you are doing and
go.”

And now there
were soldiers, breaking in the door, hurling a devastating light
into the studio. She saw their silhouettes against the outside
world. They had come for her. Still mostly functioning on remote
control, she looked up toward the control room as if they could
help, could change things. The lights were on and she could see
that there was no one there.

“We can’t be
sure of what will happen. Nothing is guaranteed. But there is the
hope that we can make this disaster go away, all of us, all of
humanity, and even if you can’t go, think of those who are there,
be there in spirit if not in fact, be a part. This is the greatest
event ever to happen in all history. Don’t be the one to miss
out.”

It was coming
back to her vaguely. From time to time, people had approached her;
the production assistant to ask if she wanted to take a break; the
make-up girl to dab her brow and ask if she was feeling okay; the
floor manager to assured himself she wanted to continue. She
remembered Louie, her director, saying; “We’re going now. Do you
want to come with us?” She didn’t remember what she answered, if
she answered, she supposed that she had just shrugged them off and
continued her diatribe. The studio nurse too, telling her she was
exhausted. How long had she been at this?

“We are all
united in this, the people of the planet earth, regardless of
colour, religion or nationality. We are as one, against a singular
force. Only our unity can stand against it. All of the pilgrims are
there. Anyone who can get there, do so. Anyone who can watch it on
television, join us with your thoughts. We are as one today.”

She remembered
people raving, talking about her as if she wasn’t there. “This is
the largest television audience ever,” they cried jubilantly. “And
you, Lorna, are the most popular person to have ever lived.” Oddly,
she didn’t feel any different for that. “And everyone is behind
you. They all love you. No person, not Christ nor Buddha nor anyone
else, in all history, has ever been loved by so many people as you
are today.” “You are the queen of the world, Lorna,” the PR person
babbled. “They’ll make you the first President of the Global
Republic.” Errant nonsense, she was sure. She pressed on, not
because of what they said but in spite of it, because she knew
Harley had been right and that this gathering of humanity, this
unification, was the pure form of love that she had been so
desperately seeking. The love of all humanity for all humanity.
They could make her President some other day—today she was only
Harley’s messenger.

“This is love.
This is what those emotions and confusions that plague us all have
always been about. We are capable of any deed imaginable, good or
evil, and any emotion, kind or cruel, that is possible. But most of
all we seek love and this is the love we seek. We, all of us, love
one another, totally and selflessly, and for no other reason than
because we want to love. It is our greatest right, and it is ours,
here and now. Grasp it with both hands and refuse to let go. This
is what we have sought for all history. Take it and hold it to your
breast. This is why we are honoured with the name Humanity.”

She remembered
there had been crowds, a huge multitude outside the studio and her
crew was trapped inside for many hours. The vast throng waited for
her to emerge but she stayed and talked and said her stuff. But now
they were gone and she was alone. Except for the soldiers.

The officer
approached her now, unarmed and unthreateningly. “Miss Simmons?
Will you come with us now? Everything is finished here.”

“Everyone has
gone?” she said, or asked—she wasn’t sure which.

“Yes. Everyone
has gone. Bakersfield is completely deserted now. Only you are
left. I think they forgot that you are not a pilgrim anymore, and
would stay on.”

“Of course,”
she smiled. She had forgotten it herself. “Are you sure they are
all gone?”

“Every one of
them. And we have a plane waiting for you, to take you there if you
want to go.”

“I have to
maintain the broadcast,” she said. “I have to keep telling them
what to do.”

“They all know
what to do, Miss Simmons. They are all gathering at the focal
point. Everyone who can, from all around the world. They have all
heard you, and listened, and believed. There’s only you left, and
only just time to get you there.”

“Of course. I’d
forgotten. I get to choose.”

“Yes, Miss
Simmons. It’s up to you.”

She paused, but
she didn’t need to think about it really. It was just that she had
been here, immobilised, for so long that she didn’t quite know how
to leave.

“It’s Lorna,”
she said, giving the soldier a flirtatious flash of her eyes.

He almost fell
over backwards in his surprise. “What?”

“My name. It’s
Lorna. Please call me that.”

“If you wish…”
the soldier said uncertainly.

“What’s your
name? You’re real name—not the one that goes with your rank and
serial number.”

“Ryan.”

“Okay, Ryan.
I’d like to go, but really I must maintain the broadcast, until the
event is over.”

“We know that.
We have a camera crew on the plane. You can continue all the
way.”

She smiled. The
man looked pleased at his own efficiency.

“Then fine.
What’s holding us up?”

All along the
southern edge of the mighty Congo River, a vast flotilla had
gathered comprising vessels of every kind. There were the huge
river ferries looking fearfully top-heavy, and a number of very
decrepit wooden tourist boats. There were fishing boats, private
boats, row boats and canoes. Anything that could float for miles
around was gathered there, compliments of Brian Carrick who had
toiled through the tedium of contacting every operator on the whole
river system and offering them twice the normal rate. Even police
boats and military boats had been turned to the task, amphibians
and a gun boat that undoubtably survived from European rule. The
presidential barge was there, and a paddle steamer that seemed to
have sailed right out of Mark Twain.

Several pontoon
jetties had been organised and now onto these flocked Andromeda’s
legions, making their way to whatever boat was most convenient, and
when each was full it pulled away from the pontoons to allow the
next vessel to be filled. At this point, the opposite bank of the
river was only just visible in the distance, and it had been agreed
that the boats wait to travel in convoy for they would tow the
pontoons with them —loaded with people—since there was a similar
lack of landing facilities on the other side. For the sake of
organisation and to appease local officialdom, it had been decided
to avoid using any major docks and towns as part of the operation,
for they were overcrowded places, shanty towns mostly, and the huge
influx people would create more chaos than their meagre docking
facilities would solve. More pontoons were on the way and could be
expected to be in place by the time the flotilla returned to for
their next consignment of humanity, and then they too would be
towed across, increasing the landing stage. Even with such
maximised organisation, the transportation of the entire group was
expected to take several days.

On the far side
was mostly a gigantic swamp and the location had been chosen
because it was the only bit of dry ground in the region, and just a
mile inland from the landing place there was an airstrip which
Maynard had commandeered. Here the C130s and other cargo
aircraft—mainly DC-3s and similar vintage types from local charter
operators, and Caribous and Chinooks provided by the USAF, would be
there to immediately begin ferrying the people to Lake Chad. While
the large aircraft could make the distance directly, arrangements
had been made to refuel the smaller en route.

There was a
small white launch that had been gladly provided by friends of the
president and it was here that Andromeda positioned herself.
Maynard was with her, liaising by radio with his men who directed
the loading procedures. The only other occupants of the launch was
a local helmsman, and twenty children chosen from the flock as a
reward for their bravery on the long march.

“Position me
where everyone can see me,” Andromeda instructed the helmsman.

Maynard smiled
but said nothing. The captains of all the various vessels had their
orders. He was on the launch to facilitate getting to any
troublespot speedily. He checked the flare pistol he would fire
when they gave him the clearance from the land. The helmsman sailed
them fifty metres toward the middle of the river, directly away
from the fleet. Andromeda stood in the rear of the boat and raised
her arms. From the boats, a great roar went up in response.

Maynard offered
her a bleak look. “It’s hard enough to tell what’s going on,
Andromeda, without you getting them all over-excited.”

“I just wanted
to make sure they all knew where I was,” Andromeda said
determinedly.

Maynard checked
his mood. He was a very harried man, and he had left the
arrangements at Lake Chad to Brian Carrick, in order to fly down
here and supervise this, the most difficult part of the operation.
On the Plain of Confrontation, as the Lake Chad base had come to be
called—in fact it was officially but less conspicuously the
northern extreme of the Plain of Bornu—the airstrips were operating
and the pilgrims streaming in and it was all as planned and
organised as it would get. But, for the moment, that would have to
take care of itself. Getting these people over the river without
disaster was the primary concern—the larger scale difficulties he
could work on when he got back.

His men were
weary from their brief but successful firefight, and should have
been rested. But they had the experience in handling these people
and anyway, all wanted to be in on the completion of the job. US
and UN troops had moved in at Lake Chad. And, best of all, this was
a maritime operation when Maynard and his crew had been landlocked
for far too long.

The radio
signal came through, and Maynard stood in the stern of the launch
and fired the flare. Nothing happened for a moment, and then the
river began to churn as the innumerable vessels got underway.

As soon as they
started to move, Andromeda turned to the helmsman, who had been
watching for her signal with some anxiety, and nodded. The launch
swerved left with such violence that Maynard was all but thrown
into the river. As he recovered himself into a sitting position,
Andromeda strode down to the stern and, as before, threw up her
arms. From the flotilla, the roar of voices in response could be
clearly heard.

Maynard, his
head swivelling this way and that, finally regained his footing,
but she was so much taller than he that he still seemed to grovel
about her feet.

“Where the hell
are you going?” he protested frantically.

“Where I said I
would go,” Andromeda replied blithely.

“You mean
Sierra Leone,” Maynard said. He was carrying a pistol on his belt
and reached for it now. “Mantu. Turn the boat now,” he yelled.