Blasphemy

“What about the mob?” Wardlaw yelled. “They’ve set fire to the hangars at the airfield!”

“They can’t get in here,” said Hazelius calmly.

“They’re still descending the ropes.”

“We’re safe in here.”

Ford watched on the screen as the mob swarmed up the elevator building, finally reaching the roof. The camera shook, tilted crazily, and then the screen went black with a pop.

“Gregory, we’ve got to shut down Isabella,” said Dolby.

“Ken, just give me five more minutes.”

Dolby stared, his jaw trembling with raw emotion.

“Five more. I beg you. We may be talking to God, Ken. God .”

Sweat streamed down Dolby’s face. His jaw twitched. He gave a single, sharp nod and turned back to his machine.

“This new religion you want us to preach,” Hazelius said, “what will we ask people to worship? Where’s the beauty and awe in this?”

Ford strained to read the answer, half-hidden by a blizzard of snow breaking out across the screen.

I ask you to contemplate the universe that you now know exists. Is it not, by itself, more awe- inspiring than any God concept offered by the historical religions? A hundred billion galaxies, lonely islands of fire flung like bright coins in a vastness of space so immense that it is beyond the biological comprehension of the human mind. And I say to you, that the universe you have discovered is only a tiny fraction of the extent and magnificence of the creation. You inhabit but the tiniest blue speck in the infinite vaults of heaven, and yet this speck is precious to me, being an essential part of the whole. That is why I have come to you. Worship me and my great works, not some tribal god imagined by warring pastoralists thousands of years ago.

Dolby stared, his face slick with sweat, his jaw clenched. Hazelius swiveled his thin, eager face back to the Visualizer. “More, tell us more.”

“I’m getting alarms across the grid,” said St. Vincent, his calm voice just beginning to crack. “Transformers are overheating on Line One halfway to the Colorado border.”

Trace the lineaments of my face with your scientific instruments. Search for me in the cosmos and in the electron. For I am the God of deep time and space, the God of superclusters and voids, the God of the Big Bang and the inflation, the God of dark matter and dark energy.

The Bridge began to shake, and the smell of burning electronics filled the air.

The security cams at the airport showed both hangars burning furiously. A mob had surrounded a helicopter on the helipad. A soldier carrying an M-16 stood in the helicopter bay, firing over their heads, trying to warn them off. The chopper was powering up.

“Where did all these people come from?” Innes stared at the screens, his voice rising shrilly above the screaming of Isabella.

Science and faith cannot coexist. One will destroy the other. You must make sure science is the surviving party, or your little blue speck will be lost . . ..

Edelstein spoke. “My p5s are overheating.”

“Give me one minute!” Hazelius roared. He turned to the screen, shouting over the din, “What should we do?”

With my words you will prevail. Tell the world what happened here. Tell the world that God has spoken to the human race—for the first time. Yes, for the first time!

“But how can we explain you if you can’t tell us what you are?”

Do not repeat the mistake of the historical religions and involve yourselves in disputation about who I am or what I think. I surpass all understanding. I am the God of a universe so vast, only the God numbers can describe it, of which I have given you the first.

“Oh shit,” said Wardlaw, staring at the security monitors.

Ford turned his attention back to the security screens. The mob bombarded the chopper with rocks and gunfire, while the soldier guarding it fired over their heads. Someone tossed a Molotov cocktail at the chopper. Falling short, it drenched the tarmac in front with flames. The soldier lowered his weapon and fired into the crowd. The chopper started to rise.

“Oh my God,” said Wardlaw, his face looking sick.

Despite the carnage, the raging throng closed in, their return fire flashing and flaring off the chopper’s armor.

You are the prophets leading your world into the future. What future will you choose? You hold the key . . ..

As Ford watched, a half dozen Molotov cocktails came flying out of the crowd, bursting against the side of the chopper. The fire swept upward, engulfing the rotors. A fuel line ignited, and with a massive thump the chopper detonated, a roiling ball of fire levitating into the night sky. The pieces of the chopper rained back down on the asphalt, a cascade of fire, spreading rapidly as the burning fuel ran in all directions. A moment later a soldier jumped out of the surging flames, flailing, sheeted with fire, and collapsed burning on the tarmac.

“Oh Jesus,” Wardlaw said. “They blew up the chopper.”

Hazelius, staring at the Visualizer, paid no attention.

“And now look at this!” Wardlaw cried, his finger stabbing at a screen. “The mob’s outside the Bunker door! They’re after Isabella. They’re killing the soldiers out there!”

Dolby cried. “I’m shutting down Isabella.”

“No!” Hazelius rushed Dolby and they struggled briefly, but Dolby was ready this time and flung the smaller man to the ground. He turned back to the keyboard.

“It’s locked on! Isabella’s locked!” he screamed. “It won’t accept the shutdown codes!”

“Oh Jesus, we’re dead,” said Innes. “We are dead.”

65

BERN WOLF SHRANK INTO THE SHADOWS of the titanium door, behind the soldiers. The swelling crowd had poured down the ropes like they were possessed and were now forcing them all up against the rocks to the rear. What soldiers had ever faced a situation like this before, a rampaging mass of fellow Americans, a civilian mob that included women? It was crazy. Who were these people? Branch Davidians? Ku Klux Klanners? They were dressed every which way, armed with everything from rifles to ninja stars. Many of them waved makeshift, improvised crosses and pressed in on the soldiers, who could retreat no farther.

Doerfler finally spoke. “This is U.S. government property,” he shouted. “Lay your weapons on the ground. Do it now .”

An emaciated figure stepped forward from the crowd, a big revolver in his hands.

“My name’s Pastor Russell Eddy. We’re here as God’s army to destroy this infernal machine and the Antichrist within. Step aside and let us pass.”

The crowd was sweaty, their eyes eerily bright in the artificial lights, their bodies swaying with excitement. Some wept, tears streaming down their faces. More continued down the ropes. There didn’t seem to be any limit to their numbers or any way to stop them.

Wolf stared at them with sick fascination. They looked possessed.

“I don’t give a damn who you are,” barked Doerfler, “or why you’re here. I’m telling you one last time: lay down your weapons.”

“Or what?” Eddy asked, his voice bolder.

“Or my men will defend themselves and this U.S. government installation using all available means. Now lay down your weapons.”

“No,” said the scrawny pastor. “We won’t lay down our weapons. You are agents of the New World Order, soldiers of the Antichrist!”

Doerfler walked toward Eddy with his hand out. He spoke loudly. “Give me the gun, pal.”

Eddy pointed the revolver at him.

“Look at you,” said Doerfler derisively. “You fire that and the only person you’re going to hurt is yourself. Give it to me. Now.”