“Yes, sir, that’s correct. But I think my question to God was answered by Cal being here. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. She has the key to unlock the whole thing.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you heard her, didn’t you? She’s had a vision of the storm world, and we will have a lead on what to look for in the Holo-cast files!”
Benn’s mouth fell open and then just as quickly snapped shut. But before he could explode Cal rushed to explain.
“Don’t get mad, Dad. I already told him about the files and he’s only saying what I was saying—if they can help explain my vision they can explain a lot of other things too.”
Benn blew between his lips in barely suppressed anger. “This is what I cannot accept—that there is some truth we don’t know, something that has been kept concealed. This is what this young man is saying, and it has infected you, Cal.”
“That’s not it at all, Dad. If there is something in the files, that is our story. Don’t you see? It’s only that it’s been forgotten or ignored.”
Boldly she shifted the argument, “Why be afraid that the files can threaten our faith? If you believe in our story you have to believe in the files. So you see, you must allow us to look at them!”
Benn's shoulders slumped. His daughter’s logic seemed irresistible. He'd known these files ever since he was these young people's age and everything he'd ever found there had supported his faith. It was true, he'd never researched a fraction of them; no Worship Leader had. There were far too many well-beloved well-known resources to go too far afield. If he really did have faith in these records of grace then he had to say yes. It would also dispose of the problem of how to handle Poll. “And who knows,” he thought, “maybe I’ll discover new material to use in the presentations? I could become the greatest Worship Leader the Sector has ever known.”
***
Away beyond the rim of the frozen Homeland, beyond the refrigeration and nuclear power plants, where the climate had already changed to fierce wind gusts and wild squalls of snow, a rocket shuttle stood waiting. Deep inside a metal tunnel at the base of a half-mile incline, it was like a bullet loaded in the chamber of a gun, except this bullet was able to re-enter the barrel of the rifle, guided with pin-point accuracy on a return flight. The shaft was set in a deep quarry in a chain of hills, so the shuttle departing or re-entering the muzzle would be swallowed by clouds at the level of the mouth. If by remote chance someone was observing from the Sectors it would be indistinguishable from a dull flash of lightning.
Service lights gleamed from a string of support buildings on the surface and along a passageway leading inside the great blast-resistant base of the tunnel. A flurry of activity was occurring in one of the buildings, a small office and control hut. Outside the hut a caterpillar tractor stood idling with no one in it. It had just disembarked three passengers who entered the office directly, two of them tripping over each other as they looked about in amazement. Inside the office was a fourth person who at once began a sequence of procedures with the newcomers. Blood samples were taken, tested and recorded. A camera flashed, retina images and finger prints were scanned. All the information was entered into a computer and transmitted in a radio message.
The four individuals stood around chatting, two of them excited and trembling like children at their first party. A return message was received and immediately the two guides clicked out of some computer screens, threw some switches and led the other two back to the tractor. Together they made the short trip to a garage where they parked the tractor and then crossed a compound and entered the passageway. Their feet sounded a tattoo on the metallic surface as they half ran to an elevator at the end. Its door already lay open and they took the car hundreds of feet down to the level of the shuttle. They exited on a heat-discolored steel deck lit by brilliant floodlights. Before them an automated gantry stretched across the empty cavernous space to the cone of the rocket and an open hatch. The guides assisted their nervous charges along the gantry and through the hatch, showing them to two passenger seats and helping them secure the safety harnesses. One of the guides closed the hatch and when both of them were also strapped in they hit some switches. The gantry separated and retracted and a shield closed across the access deck. Almost simultaneously a firing sequence began. Exhaust from ignited fuel hissed and billowed around the base, the shuttle began to tremble and gradually move forward. Then there was a sudden convulsive flash and huge increase in power. A sheet of fire and smoke broke in all directions and the frame of the craft shot forward with exponential speed up the tunnel. The noise was deafening and the sensation terrifying. After what seemed like an eternity of shaking and roaring the shuttle burst from the mouth of the tunnel into the open air.
For the next few seconds its trajectory maintained a shallow angle toward the sky, like a great bird in a long low take-off. Very quickly it penetrated deep into the storm world and was met by the full power of the winds. Their hurricane force caught it like the branch of a tree, whipping it round. But the ship had been designed to veer with the wind and continue to trim around and upward until it cleared the stratosphere. On a return trip, it would come in at a steeper pitch and level out to the angle of the tunnel just past the most powerful winds. On this escape trip the lucky pair, Danny and Liz, were absolutely terrified. They could not believe what they had done and what was happening. They both screamed and groaned, holding onto their seats, knuckles showing white. Their two guides turned to them and flashed their brilliant smiles. Dante, who had spoken to them at the Sports Center, and told them of the unique privilege for which they were being chosen, yelled above the throbbing and shaking.
“Don’t worry kids, it’s almost over.”
His companion whose name was Milton bellowed, “Really, you’ve no idea. You’re going to enjoy every second of the next one thousand years!”
10. SEARCH
Esh and Wes waited at the changing room entrance for the heroes of the hour to come out, but there was no sign of them. Unable to take the waiting any longer they went inside to search; they were nowhere to be seen. Out on the concourse again they looked at each other in bewilderment, and then in irritation.
“They’re playing some sort of stupid game,” growled Wes. “What are we supposed to do? Wait till they decide to turn up and jump out in front of us and shout ‘Boo!’?”
“I don’t know,” Esh replied. “They looked pretty psyched. It must have something to do with the guy Danny was talking to.”
“Well, where could they go? Do you think went back to Training? It’s about the only place they could.”
They set out on a search of the limited range of public spaces in the Sector, but they continued to draw a blank. In desperation they went finally to the Worship Center. When they arrived the hot topic among some young people standing in the reception area was Poll's freakish action earlier in the day.
“Seems like everyone’s cracking up,” Wes remarked sourly. “And where’s the weirdo now?”
“Oh, Cal's Dad came to stop him, and Cal was with him. They all went off to his private office.”
Wes and Esh felt that the drama at the Worship Center was not unconnected to what had happened to Liz and Danny. Disturbances like this occurred so rarely in the Homeland that the two situations surely had to be linked. They decided to wait for Cal and Poll, but they still had more frustration to endure. Poll’s crisis interview with the Worship Leader was still going on. Or at least that’s what they thought. In reality Cal and her misfit companion were working their way through the labyrinth of files buried in the Worship Center computer. Benn had finally and grudgingly granted them access.
The Worship Leader used a relatively limited range of themes in his presentations. They were gathered conveniently under a few icons, with headings like “Inspiration,” “Relaxation,” “Consolation,” or standard cycles of the Tenth and Hundredth Day festivals. He showed these to Cal and Poll on his monitor, then showed them how to sear
ch the resource folders. By typing in certain names like "Mountains" or "Seascape" any number of files would quickly come to view. It was also possible to pull up playlists of countless videos and holographs from the old world, including a vast number of environmental records, either beautiful or catastrophic. Poll and Cal had very little experience accessing information from computers. There were no independent computers in the TEPS, only the WIA feed and its holograms. In Training it was always a matter of clicking on a standard icon or at most typing in a program referenced by an instructor. The opening up of searchable data was something totally new. Poll and Cal felt a surge of excitement.
“Is there a way of looking at the whole thing overall, a catalogue of all the files, so we can find areas we're interested in?” Poll asked.
Benn shrugged his shoulders irritably. “I suppose you could look in the main directories, but I myself never go in there. There's no reason, and I'm not sure if I even know how to.”
All the same, he typed a series of letters with stars and slashes and after a quite a few attempts he eventually opened up a directory—a vast list of numbers and acronyms.
“There you are. But I doubt if you'll make any sense of it.” He stood up from his chair and sarcastically waved toward it. Be my guest!”
At once both Poll and Cal moved to sit in the chair, then backed off laughing. They leaned in together over the computer, beginning to scroll down the endless page. It did not seem to be in any order. They clicked randomly on the links and got pages and pages of code. It looked like math calculations or equations, scattered with acronyms and names which made no sense. Once or twice they got a fragment of a video, or random images of landscape or animals.
Cal said, “I suppose a lot of this could be source code for the holograms. And some of it may be from the original period of the Homeland. But without knowing how to analyze it, it means nothing.”
Benn gave a smug smile, “Exactly! And what you have there is only one of the main directories, there are dozens more.”
Poll bit his lip. They desperately needed to find a short-cut. He asked the Worship Leader whether it was possible to list any of the material by date. Benn said he'd seen a date stamp on one or two of the programs, but normally there was nothing. It looked like he was right. Running down the page and opening files they saw very few dates. It was almost as if they'd been systematically omitted. They did, however, notice some of the acronyms and names reoccurring. Cal asked her father whether they meant anything to him, but he had no idea what they were. The only name that any of them recognized was Tenet, from the history of the Global Weather Shield. For lack of any other lead they opened a couple of files with his name. This only led them to further lists of numbers and names. They seemed like locations but, again, without any dates. Scrolling through one of the sub-lists, however, they had a stroke of luck. A line that made perfect sense: “Nuclear Power Plant Building, P. 79. Approved 9.5.2036.”
“Yes,” Poll cried triumphantly, gesturing fiercely at the screen, “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
But when they opened the file it was the same jumble of meaningless numbers. Still Poll persisted: “If we can find other names and dates we can begin to build some kind of a picture.”
He entered a search for “nuclear plant,” then “nuclear power,” but the scans took forever and only retrieved one other link. This time there was almost nothing in the file, just a simple number. It almost seemed as if logical search pathways had been deliberately removed.
Cal took over the pursuit. “Wait, what if we put P.79 in the search? We know it exists, so there might be something else on it, right?”
She entered the search and almost immediately the computer produced a video file in the folder “Inspiration” with the simple name of “Building P.79.”
“Yessss!” yelled Poll, and Cal clicked on the file.
Slowly there struggled into view what looked like a half-built reactor, with reinforced concrete taking shape as cooling towers and reactor hall. The video was grainy and murky, taken in what seemed to be a violent storm of rain and wind. Pieces of plastic sheeting whipped across the site and the few figures moving in and out of shot were wrapped in oilskins, their heads bent against the elements. A voice-over commentary spoke of the glorious sacrifices of the Homeland pioneers. Poll was deflated.
“Well, that doesn’t tell us very much. Just the usual stuff.” He stared glumly at the monitor and Cal clicked off the video.
“I told you,” declared Benn. “Now will you believe me? There is no other story but the one our faith has always taught us!”
Cal wasn’t listening. “I suppose we could try the same thing with that other power plant number we came up with…”
And without waiting she keyed in S.40. But again there were no results.
Poll shut his eyes and tried to think. “What happens when things go wrong, you know, when programs break down? They have to do sometimes. So there has to be some kind of backup directory. One with more of a logical structure.”
Benn made a concerted effort at self-control; he had to see this thing through. He clenched his teeth and hit an intercom switch on his desk, calling for his technical assistant. The acolyte came almost at once, a bespectacled young man with an officious manner. "Nat, please tell my guests what happens when a computer program fails to run.”
“Well, that's a problem situation. You have to link up to the network, in order to reboot the program.”
Poll asked, “You mean there are computers behind this one?”
“Yes, of course, they back each other up.”
“Can we get into the network, I mean now?”
Nat looked unbelievingly at Poll and then at Benn who was breathing heavily in frustration. He glared at everyone fiercely but nodded his permission. Nat raised his eyebrows but sat down at the computer and hit a couple of keys then entered a password. The screen lit up in a completely new way.
“Dad, why does he have a password and you don't?”
“I gave Nat the password. I have implicit trust in my acolyte.”
Nat glanced at them with a superior look. “I am deeply conscious of the sacred trust Worship Leader Anders has conferred on me.”
He began voice-selecting the screen and Poll and Cal were both impressed with this new technique. The network he was exploring had all the icons Cal and Poll had seen before. When they were opened they glimpsed the same material as before. Nat was selecting in and out at speed, really not wanting them to see, but both Cal and Poll glimpsed a new icon. It was titled “Trash.”
“Hey, what's that? Can you open that one?”
“What for? There's nothing in it, just corrupt files, that kind of thing.”
“It looks interesting. Why don't you open it?”
Reluctantly Nat opened the folder. Benn drew closer, involved now despite himself. Inside the data looked even more random and indecipherable. Benn relaxed again, hardly bothering to hide a smirk.
Cal leaned over and on a whim typed in the second code name, S.40.
There was a pause and then abruptly a video symbol showed, but this time on its own and outside a presentation folder.
“What’s this?” Poll hunched forward. Cal hit the icon. Once again moving images appeared on the screen but entirely unlike what they had seen before.
They all stared blankly at the monitor.
“Holy shit!” said Poll. Cal said, “Oh my God!” Benn, completely exasperated, demanded, “What?”
11. THE LIE
On the screen was a bunch of men and women bathed in brilliant golden light. The men were stripped to the waist, the women in tank-tops, all tanned to a walnut brown. They were dirty, dusty and happy, their arms around each other’s shoulders, joking and smiling broadly. In the background were the same half-completed buildings and towers. Around the scene, to the side and behind, everything was brown and green. There was no sound commentary this time, just the group posing for the camera. It lasted only about seven seconds
then blinked out.
“Don’t you see?” cried Poll. “This has to be something else going on. They’re building a nuclear reactor and there’s no storm, nothing like it. It proves there’s more to the world than storms. There has to be some other place, different from the Homeland!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” answered Benn, his voice rising in anger. “It proves nothing of the sort. There had to be some good weather during pioneer times.”
“But, Dad, look at the color of their skin. How could that happen in a couple of days? And they’re so happy! I’ve never seen pioneers look like that. That’s the way Immortals are supposed to look!”
Poll chimed in immediately: “It’s proof positive that what you preach is a cover-up!”
“That’s enough,” exploded Benn, reaching to pick up the phone. “I’m calling Security and having you detained. You will be reported to the Control Council for blasphemy and heresy.”
Cal gasped. “And you,” he said, turning on his daughter, “Go to the Worship Area and wait for me. You will never speak with this deviant again!” And, into his phone, “Security to my office, now!”
He turned to his acolyte who was looking shocked and ordered him to shut the computer down. Poll knew what was coming. He jumped from the chair and headed out of the room. Cal stared open-mouthed. She had never seen her father react this way before. “Dad, you can’t …” she protested feebly and trailed off.
Two security officials arrived almost at once, dressed in their black drill with gold trim. They had been put on alert by the assistant after the previous incident. But they had missed Poll.
“Sidak has already left,” Benn informed them. “He will be picked up later as soon as I cite him to the Council. In the meantime escort my daughter to the Worship Area and keep her under supervision until I leave with her.”
Cal found her voice. “Dad, this is crazy. What have we done? We were only looking at files on your computer.”
Pascale's Wager: Homelands of Heaven Page 5