by Glenn Kleier
This was indoors. Like the inside of an airplane hangar.
Confused, Ariel inched out onto the grass, and the people burst into applause. She was shocked to make out TPC Director, Winston Keller. And to her relief and astonishment, Stan, who looked fully recovered from the blows he’d taken, sporting a goatee and no glasses. He smiled and waved.
Next to Stan was Tia, clipboard in hand, eyes glistening. Her hair was different, again. No longer pink or purple, un-tinted, and smartly styled. Max was nowhere to be seen, but beside Tia stood a dark-haired, clean-cut, handsome young man. Ariel didn’t recognize him, though he nodded as if he knew her. In one arm he held a big, orange cat. And holding the man’s other hand was—
Oh my God…
Ariel trembled. A young woman with pale skin, no makeup, platinum hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. Black-rim glasses, apprehensive silver eyes. And she held a leash.
Newton.
The dog seemed calmer and more under control than she’d ever seen him. He stared at Ariel, then turned to nod at the cat, and Ariel could swear they exchanged winks. The woman passed the leash to the man with the cat, and approached Ariel as far as the Horizon line.
Ariel forced herself to unsteady feet, gaping at a reflection of her own anxiety.
The woman said in a voice familiar-yet-strange, “We’ve been expecting you. We didn’t know exactly when the Big One would hit.”
“Where am I?” Ariel asked, overwhelmed. “When am I?”
“Where and when you were before, in the tent outside the farmhouse. Except, it appears we no longer exist in the same world. We replaced the house and yard with this facility years ago.”
Ariel was incredulous. The things she’d experienced here had never happened?
The woman seemed to read her. “We suspect you inhabit a parallel dimension—presuming Superstring Theory is correct. This is all new to us, too, we’ve much work ahead.”
“But where’s Max?”
The woman puzzled, then said, “Yes, yes. I never met Mr. Bach, he works at Hadron.”
“And the Tia and Stan I used to know?”
The woman shook her head.
Ariel’s head was spinning. All her years here had been erased. Never had she felt so alone. The woman was right, this was no longer Ariel’s world. She was lost, marooned in time.
Her eyes teared once more, and she saw the same in her twin. It seemed all Ariel’s efforts over the past weeks, all the risks she and her friends had taken, were in vain.
Fearful, she asked, “What happens if I leave this bubble?”
The woman lowered her gaze. “Also unknown. It’s possible you’ll return to the world you left, if it still exists in the multiverse. Or one of us may replace the other. Or something else entirely that we can’t yet imagine.”
Ariel turned to stare into the tent at the last shattered remnants of her life. All that remained of her now lay broken on the floor.
“What should I do?” she asked, hurting and confused.
“That’s a decision only you can make.”
“But won’t my leaving this bubble put you at risk, too?”
The woman looked to the people behind her, who seemed to share Ariel’s fear. Facing Ariel again, the woman set her jaw. “I’ve spent years preparing for this moment. All of us have. But there’s no clock, no urgency. It’s entirely up to you.”
The room grew tense, and the woman’s eyes shimmered under the lights. She said, “Whatever happens now, we want you to know we’re deeply in your debt. You made our world a far, far better place. If not for you, your brilliance and courage, none of us would be here today.”
Another round of applause. It washed over Ariel leaving her more confused than ever. She felt trapped. She’d felt trapped her entire life. Trapped by her family, her religion, her appearance, her shyness. And now, this Trapping Horizon.
It was time to free herself. Whatever her fate, she accepted it.
“I’m ready if you are,” she said.
Taking a long breath, she extended her hand to the woman, the woman took it, and instantly everything within the Horizon flashed and vanished.
Ariel, too.
Part four
Chapter 130
The Present, Monday, May 10, 8:00 am
The City of God
“Where do you want us to set up?” one of the cameramen asked Kyle Heath as they removed equipment from the van.
Heath rubbed sleep from his eyes, trying to absorb the scene before him. “Nowhere,” he replied. “I want you to roam the area and document all of this.”
He and his news team had flown in late last night for an up-close look at the phenomena unfolding here in Penbrook Thornton’s City. Stories had been going around, but Heath was the first reporter Thornton had allowed in. Another Hawk exclusive.
Their van was parked outside Chapel Mount Park, the town’s large commons. When Heath was last here eight months ago, it was a quiet, grassy area, with towering hill. Now it was a bustling tent city sheltering thousands. A sea of neat, white canvass spread out uniformly across the fields like an army encampment.
Busses were unloading passengers and their meager belongings. The same busses that once transported Thornton’s Evangelical Crusaders into political battle, apparent from their faded signage. Now bearing people of differing faiths and ethnicities, down on their luck from across the country. The newcomers were met by attendants in golf carts who ferried them off to tents.
Heath’s crew headed out, and he took a path toward a very large tent in the distance.
As he went, he shook his head with amazement. Never in his reporting had he seen a homeless shelter like this. The residents appeared healthy and content, greeting him pleasantly as he passed. He saw bathroom and shower facilities with fresh clothing, bed linens and towels. Mobile medical and dental units, playgrounds, ball fields, bookmobiles with computers. And as he neared the large tent, he inhaled the scent of bacon and sausage.
Reverend Thornton stood at the tent door welcoming arrivals. He was having a very good day. Last night, the Supreme Court announced its decision regarding the ACLU’s suit to negate the City’s charter. In a narrow ruling, the Court sided with the City, and given Filby and the GOP majority had prevailed in the election, there was now nothing to interfere with Thornton’s work.
He looked up, pleased to see Kyle Heath of Hawk News approaching. Thornton was expecting him. After months of hard work, the reverend was ready to break some news.
Accepting Thornton’s hand, Heath gestured around to say, “My, how things have changed.”
“Indeed they have,” Thornton replied, “praise the Lord. We’ve much to discuss.”
He led Heath into the tent where there was a buffet and tables filled with people dining and chatting. Grabbing coffee at a beverage counter, the two men settled at a table in a quiet corner.
Heath noted the ring on Thornton’s finger to say, “I hear congratulations are in order.”
Thornton felt his heart glow. “You’ll meet Alice shortly, she’s on our itinerary.”
“Looking forward to it,” Heath replied. “In the meantime, I’ve a million questions. I wish you’d let me bring in my crew and get you on camera.”
“As I said, I don’t do on-camera interviews anymore. Our work now is about the message, not the messenger. All part of our Revised Enlightenment.”
Nodding, Heath took out a pen and notepad, and continued. “I’ve heard bits and pieces about the Prophet’s Enlightenment. Or should I call him, ‘Hermit?’ Seven months, and not a glimpse. But he’s certainly been busy with new prophecies. The world’s flipping out, people are dying to know what’s going on.”
“To be clear, I’ve not seen him either, not since his last appearance on TV. But he contacts me now and then to give counsel and assistance.”
“Do you mind sharing some of his counsel? I admit, I’m at a loss.”
“It’s actually very simple. According to the Prophet, most of us have
things backwards. The point of religion, he tells us, is to serve people, and not the other way around. The Lord wants us to ease off the proselytizing and lead by example, get out there and make lives better, particularly for the poor and downtrodden.”
“And these services you offer here, they’re open to anyone seeking help?”
“Yes, irrespective of race, creed, politics, or sexual persuasion—no obligation. All anyone need do is contact us or other participating Churches, and we do the rest.”
“But how long can you and your associate Churches expect to fund all this?”
“Given the commitment and generosity of our congregants, indefinitely. And I should add, our funds are matched dollar-for-dollar by the Prophet.”
Heath’s jaw dropped. “Where does the Prophet get his funds?”
“I don’t know. But I imagine, as they say, the Lord provides.”
Scribbling notes, Heath asked, “I understand your Enlightenment cost you followers. When refugees began arriving here, didn’t many congregants bail?”
“True,” Thornton said. “Some find it hard to disrupt comfortable lives and incomes in service of our less fortunate. Others find the diversity hard to swallow. But like the Prophet instructs, you can teach old dogma new tricks. As people come to realize the success of our program and others like it, more are seeing the light.”
Indeed, over the previous months, Thornton and all but one laggard Church on the Council had undergone spiritual overhauls. With guidance from the Prophet, they were resolving moral questions not by reaching for the bible, but by reaching into their hearts and minds. A more compassionate, tolerant reflection of faith tempered by reason—and even science.
Heath paused, took a breath, and said, “I know this is a sore subject, Reverend, but I’d be remiss not to bring it up…your Family Research Institute.”
The joy in Thornton’s heart faded, and he lowered his eyes. “In my blindness and ignorance,” he admitted, “I brought a terrible evil into our City. That wrong has been dealt with, and I’m doing everything in my power to make amends. We’ve turned the Institute into a Diversity Center, run by my wife.”
In fact, since changing the Center and other Church reforms at the urging of the Prophet, the City’s plague of troubled youth had plummeted, praise God.
Both men reflected for a moment. Then Thornton rose to say, “Come, I’ll introduce you to Alice. Then we’ll drop by our subsidized housing development. You can see firsthand some of our on-the-job training…
Chapter 131
The Present, Monday, May 10, 9:00 am, Queens
Ivy sat in the backseat of an electric car, gazing out tinted windows at the block where Scotty’s apartment building used to be. Well, the building was still there, but it no longer housed apartments. The entire block on both sides was under renovation.
Across the street, the brownstones were being gutted and refurbished, turned into upscale, low-income housing. Empty corner stores were being converted into a medical clinic, a soup kitchen, a recreation center, a library, a continuing-education facility. More such mixed-use construction was in the works for surrounding areas.
Scotty’s end of the block was finished, transformed into a megacomplex of offices. Each weekend for months, Ivy had been coming to assist him with his ambitious goals, but today she was here for a different reason.
Her driver turned into an underground parking garage, passing through a security gate, stopping at an elevator. Ivy exited, promising not to be long, and rode up two floors to exit in front of another security gate. Before she could swipe her ID card, a guard inside smiled and buzzed her in.
“Morning, Ivy,” he said. “Didn’t ‘spect to see you on a weekday. No school?”
“Hey, Pedro,” she replied. “Not today. Got some travel plans.”
She continued to a reception area with several unmarked doors. A woman sat at a desk of video monitors under a sign reading:
No Unauthorized Personnel
“Hey, Ivy,” the woman greeted her, waving her past.
“Hey, Tiffany. You seen Scotty this morning?”
“Main conference room. Said to send you in when you got here.”
She thanked her and continued through one of the unmarked doors into a spacious area. Tall ceilings and windows, exposed brick, desks, and computers. Half the room was open to the floor below, where dozens of people hummed about in an open-office setting and meeting areas. To Ivy’s right was a glass-enclosed conference room. A gilded sign on a wall behind read:
The Rose Butterfield Foundation
Scotty was at a table inside, in discussions with a dozen men and women. A meeting of department heads—a select, sworn-to-secrecy inner circle that administered Scotty’s “prophecies.” Curled on the table was Homer, the tip of his orange tail in a lazy wag.
Every Monday, Scotty presented his departments with predictions from what he called The Archive of Things to Come. He kept the true source of his omniscience hidden from all but Ivy. Scotty hated the title “Prophet,” but by necessity, it remained the banner under which he revealed his pronouncements to the world.
Ivy’s heart welled as she watched her brother. No one who knew him before he went into seclusion would recognize him today. Trim in a tailored suit and tie. Clean-shaven, hair neatly cut and combed, smiling big, teeth straight and bright. He spotted Ivy and waved her in, and she entered to see a man at the table holding a chart of zig-zaggy lines, trending up.
The man said, “Earnings exceed projections. Our investment portfolio has tripled, stock returns quadrupled. Lottery winnings and off-track revenues are through the roof.” He paused to recognize Ivy, who waved a hand of apology and took a seat in the back, returning nods from others. The man continued, “But the big news is our winnings from the basketball brackets. Although after this, we may have to back off on sports a while, Vegas bookies are getting wise to us.”
Scotty thanked him and acknowledged a recent addition to the group, an intriguing young woman Ivy had met before, but not yet gotten to know. Nicole LeClair. Dark hair and eyes, gorgeous skin, cool neck tattoo and piercings.
Scotty had gone to great lengths over the winter tracking her to a “gentlemen’s club” in New Orleans, convincing her to come work with the Foundation. After a rough start, Nicole had settled in, rising to head a department and proving Scotty’s point: given the right opportunities, unaccomplished people could accomplish remarkable things. Of course, Scotty himself was proof of that.
Nicole headed up the Life-Threatening Personal Tragedies Division—accidents, fatal diseases, murders and such. She was charged with alerting those in Fate’s crosshairs. Ivy had hoped for a chance to work with Nicole, but that would have to wait.
Finishing her report, Nicole yielded to a woman who oversaw global natural disasters: pending earthquakes, avalanches, floods, fires, and on. Her responsibility was to warn governments and relief agencies well-enough in advance to mitigate casualties and property loss. To ensure the Foundation’s warnings received due attention and respect, each alert always went out under the official rubric of [email protected].
Next, a woman reported on preventable mass disasters: terrorist attacks, plane crashes, oil spills, and such. These, however, were issues Scotty chose to deal with personally, and when the woman concluded, she added, “I sent you the latest list with full details.”
Scotty thanked her, glanced at his watch and said, “I’m afraid that’s all for today. Nice work, everybody, great stuff. We’ll pick up when I get back.”
As people filed out, Scotty stowed his laptop in a shoulder bag, grabbed Homer, and suggested to Ivy, “We’ve got a moment, what say we peek in on ground zero?”
They exited the main office, out into a hallway to yet another security gate. Accessing it with an ID badge, Scotty led on to a second, more formidable-looking metal door requiring an iris-scan cued solely to his eye. Ivy heard the sound of heavy tumblers, and followed her brother inside a dark room.
&nbs
p; Scotty’s old apartment.
“Unrecognizable,” Ivy said, amazed. She hadn’t seen it in months.
Walls to the next building had been removed to create a large, open space, lots of lab equipment and machinery sitting around in plastic wrappings and tags. The only things familiar were the front window and Mom’s umbrella plant, lush and soaking up sun, a living memorial to all that had transpired here. Right of the plant along the front wall was an area cordoned off by barricades, reserved for the wormhole, if and when it reappeared. A video camera on a tripod sat in front, monitoring twenty-four/seven.
Scotty seemed lost in thought, and Ivy had to remind him, “We’ve got a car waiting.”
They returned to the hall, secured the door and sped downstairs to the garage and car. They saw only a few hangers-on and paparazzi outside these days, the madness ebbing at last. Not that anyone would recognize the new-and-improved Scotty, who could now pass in plain sight.
“Airport, please,” he told their driver. And closing the privacy screen, he handed Homer to Ivy and opened his laptop, averting it so she couldn’t see. He speed-dialed, and a woman answered.
“Morning, Mr. Butterfield. He’s expecting you, hold please.”
Seconds later, a western drawl filled the compartment. “Hey there, Scott, how ya doin’?”
“Fine, sir. And you?”
“Great, great. Ya see the Bureau of Justice crime stats today?”
“Why, no.”
“Waaay down, praise the Lord. Perps can’t figure out why we’re always three steps ahead of ‘em—hahaha.”
“Great news,” Scotty said. “I’ve a few new items to send you.”
“Anything urgent?”
“Nothing you don’t have plenty of time to head off. A school shooting, a cyber attack on the Pentagon, a train derailment. And a few political issues you’ll want to deal with.”