The Messiah Choice

by Jack L. Chalker

  “You know the doc believes we were allowed to escape,” she said nervously. “I find it hard to believe, but…”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t doubt they made you work hard on it, but he’s probably right. That’s why this is gonna be hairy— particularly in daylight, if that’s what it takes.”

  “But—they can send orders to the navy to pick us all up and turn us all over to them! I know it!”

  “Yeah, they can—but I don’t think they’ll take the chance. Things just might explode. Too many witnesses, too many people to doubt and maybe buck it upstairs. No, if they try anything now it’ll be with their own people and as closed as possible. At least, I hope so.”

  And, with that, Gregory MacDonald got himself that shot of whisky and tried to relax.

  The sun was not yet over the horizon, but the sky was rapidly growing light. There were signs of gathering storm clouds to the east that the marine forecasts said were heading in their direction, and the seas were already starting to be choppy as the little dinghy closed on the island. Aside from the rowers, it contained only Maria, Greg, and three submachine guns.

  Maria was feeling very weak and nauseous, and the rapidly roughening sea did not help matters any, but she was determined now to see this through. She pointed to the island. “There! In back of those rocks! This is it, I know it!”

  MacDonald frowned. “Damned if I can even see an inlet there. How the hell did you ever find it the first time?”

  “I—I don’t know. Angelique, she’s got some of those crazy powers herself. Oh, I hope she’s still here and all right!”

  They rounded the rocks with difficulty and found the little safe cut just as Maria had predicted. She was not physically able to manage climbing up there, though.

  MacDonald looked at her. “You say you can speak that crazy language?”

  “Yes. She—taught it to me, somehow.”

  “Call to her, then. Tell her she’s got to get down to us and fast!”

  Maria’s mind was awash with differing thoughts and emotions, and she had some trouble concentrating on that strange tongue. Finally she called out, as loud as she could, in Hapharsi, “Angelique my mother! Come to your daughter and to friends! Come quickly, for the storms blow and the sun rises as we speak!’’

  MacDonald looked at her in amazement, and the two rowers looked dubious. Though sheltered, they reached down and picked up the automatic weapons, ready for the unexpected. If somebody else had found her first, they were the fish in the barrel.

  There was no response, which made them all even more nervous than they already were. “Try again,” MacDonald urged.

  “Come, my mother, or we all perish! Come, or we must leave you forever!’’

  The wind was picking up, making it more difficult to hear anything, but suddenly a voice penetrated the noise. It was a pleasant, woman’s voice, saying words in a melodic tongue that was the same one Maria had used but far sweeter and more expert, like one born to it.

  “They must put down their metal spears, my daughter, said the voice to Maria. “Then I will come. They are all friends?”

  “Yes, my mother. One is Greg.” She turned to the others. “You must put down your guns,” she told them. “She’s afraid she’ll get shot if she shows herself.”

  “You’re sure it’s her?” MacDonald asked worriedly.

  “I’m sure.”

  “No way to tell if she’s under her own free will. Still, I’ll signal them to put the guns down. We’re dead ducks in here anyway.” He gave a hand signal. “Wish I could speak Spanish, damn it all,” he muttered.

  Suddenly the small, dark perfectly proportioned figure of a woman appeared above. She looked at the boat, then scrambled down the side of the rocky wall as if it had a ladder attached and dropped into the boat.

  All three men were shocked at her appearance, MacDonald most of all. They had been warned of this, more or less, but seeing it was something else again.

  Angelique and Maria hugged one another, and then the strange exotic-looking woman took a seat next to Maria and looked back at MacDonald with recognition in her eyes and a trace of embarrassment as well.

  The detective stared at the strange newcomer as the men pushed out and then fought the increasing surf back to open sea and the trawler. He found it impossible to think of her as Angelique, for not a trace really remained. She was certainly exotic looking, and attractively so, but her skin was so dark and shiny it was almost a blue-black, the deepest and darkest coloration he’d ever seen in an area where ninety percent of everybody was “black.” Her hair was straight and long and even blacker than her skin. As she held on with the rest of them for dear life against the pitch and toss of the small boat, she betrayed strong muscles in her arms.

  But what set her apart the most from others were the markings. Each cheek bore three stripes, each the thickness of a finger, running back nearly to her ears. The top was a deep blue, the second crimson, and the third yellow. They were regular and smooth, and slightly indented in the skin, as if a natural part of her face. Similarly, the nipples on her firm, hard breasts were ringed with the same three colors in the same order, and so, too, was her vagina, around which there seemed to be no pubic hair.

  They made it to the trawler, but had some difficulty securing to the side so that they could all climb up the rope trellis let down for that purpose. The sea was getting rough indeed, and it took several tries before they could make it, MacDonald and one of the crewmen having to just about carry Maria while going up the bobbing ship’s side. Angelique seemed to have no trouble at all, and helped Maria to the deck. They then made it inside the cabin while the crew tried to lift and stow the dinghy.

  Finally they did, and the captain immediately started forward, turning south and west to try and outrun the storm. There were suddenly a great number of voices yelling at once in Spanish, and Garcia came in, looking worried. “Senor Gregory! Two helicopters approach with strong searchlights! We do not like the look of this!”

  MacDonald immediately made his way to the door, finding it hard to walk as the boat seemed to want to move in two dimensions at once, but he made it and looked out to where Garcia was pointing. There was no mistaking their nature or their intent.

  One of the choppers approached close to the ship, and it was clear that the pilot was a very good one indeed to hold that thing in these winds.

  The captain pulled back the sliding window to the left of the stick and looked back and shouted something in Spanish.

  “They are ordering us to turn and follow them,” Garcia told him. “They want us and them clear of the storm and then we will stand to and be boarded. They say they are outfitted as helicopter gunships and in this weather are in no mood to argue!”

  “I don’t blame ’em,” MacDonald replied. “Have the captain follow their direction for now. Have the men stand by their weapons but they are not to fire. Come on—let’s go up to the wheelhouse.”

  As he said that, one of the helicopters let loose a tremendous but short burst, striking just ahead of the ship. There was no question that they were what they said they were. The captain didn’t have to have MacDonald’s instructions relayed, and he began to turn as instructed.

  MacDonald made the wheelhouse and walked back to the marine radio. “This is a vessel of Panamanian registry in legal commerce in international waters,” he said, trying to sound as indignant as possible. “You have no right to order us about or fire on us. This is an act of piracy!”

  “So yo ho ho and a bottle of rum,” somebody on the radio cracked back, apparently less than intimidated. “Now just don’t give me any of that legal shit or I might put a few hundred rounds in that wheelhouse. And nothing funny, see? Each of these choppers got two rockets underneath, any one of which could blow you all to hell. Just shut up and keep off the air waves and do exactly what you’re told to do.”

  “He does not seem surprised to hear a Canadian accent,” Garcia noted. “I think we have been had, senor.”


  “Maybe, maybe not. We expected something like this. Don’t think they got it easy up there. If you think this is rough, you should feel what they’re feeling. Those pilots are fighting a war just to stay up at all right now.” He stared at the helicopters at the window. “They got the missiles, all right, but they won’t use them. If they kill us, they kill who they’re after, too, and this all becomes a waste.”

  “It seems we could knock them down with the machine guns,” Garcia noted, sounding almost wistful.

  “No, not those babies. I don’t know which division of Magellan they got ’em from, but those are combat choppers. Armor plate, bullet proof glass, the works. We’d need good armor-piercing stuff to get anywhere inside them. Tell the captain not to hurry, though. Go as cautious and slow as they’ll allow and safety permits. If that storm comes in faster than we can get out of its way, they’ll either have to break off or go for a swim.”

  The captain, an old hand, was already doing just that.

  After several minutes in which the choppers took a real beating, the radio crackled, “Snap it up down there! You get cracking faster than that or we’ll put some rounds where they’ll do the most good and light a fire on your tail!” The message was repeated in perfect Spanish, just for emphasis.

  “We may have to try and knock ’em down,” MacDonald said worriedly. “Let me get back and prepare the women, eh?”

  He made his way back, and found them both sitting on the deck, holding on to whatever they could. As quickly as possible, he explained the situation to a very sick looking Maria, who tried to translate as much as she could.

  “There are evil men in great metal birds that can shoot thousands of arrows in the blink of an eye,” she told Angelique. “They are making us run from the storm so they can take us back.’’

  Angelique frowned and got up, then went to the window and looked out. She knew what helicopters and guns were even if there were no words for it, and she saw that all was not perfect with their tormentors. “How can they still fly in the storm?” she asked, and Maria translated.

  “Not very well,” MacDonald replied. “They’re having a worse time up there than we are here, but we’re going out of the storm’s path.”

  “She asks if they would fall to the sea if caught in the midst of the storm,” Maria told him.

  “They aren’t made to take this kind of beating, yeah. But the storm’s on a different track. We’re going out of it.”

  Angelique cast out her mind to the things and felt the evil there, but not evil of the depth she feared. She stepped back, grabbed a rail to keep standing, closed her eyes, concentrated, and began her soft chanting.

  “Spirits of nature come to the Mother of Earth. Speak to the great storm. Tell him that his power is great and we are awed by its fury and also by its beauty. Beg for his great presence to come to me.”

  The men on the ship and the men in the helicopters were suddenly aware of the clouds behind them. One by one, as they noticed, they turned and called to their fellows and pointed as the clouds rumbled and gathered and began to flow towards them at a fantastic speed. They seemed like something alive, something not altogether natural. In less than two minutes the storm had rolled over them like a great wave, and lightning and thunder rumbled all around them and strong rain pelted their frail vessels.

  Angelique felt the tremendous power, but she no longer feared the elements. Before Greg could stop her, she opened the door and went out onto the deck and then aft. MacDonald followed her, but could hardly stand in the crash and roar of the storm that tossed the ship like some child’s toy in an immense bathtub. She, however, had no such problems, her bare feet sticking to the deck and fixing her firmly.

  Both helicopters were in trouble, and clearly would have broken off if they could, but they were stuck in the midst of the ferocity. It was clear that neither would probably make it as it was, but Angelique was not going to let them go that easily. She felt supercharged, a tremendous exhilaration running through every fiber of her being. At last, again, she was not victim but in total control, and she relished the power.

  She raised her arms over her head, palms out, oblivious to the wind and rain and the pitch and yaw of the ship. MacDonald and some of the crew watched as a great bolt of electricity seemed to arc down and strike those arms, and the small woman was bathed in an eerie green glow, while around her danced small globes of the same green fire.

  Suddenly both hands went out in front of her, index fingers pointing at the two aircraft, and from her there seemed to shoot beams of green fire, leaping from her to the two helicopter gunships and bathing them in the same green glow. There were sounds from the aircraft that carried over even the roar of the storm, moans of protest as their power and electrical systems went out, leaving them helpless, yet suspended for a moment in that green glow.

  Angelique dropped her arms to her sides, and the two helicopters crashed into the sea behind the trawler and erupted in tremendous explosions, sending bright fireballs into the sky.

  MacDonald was transfixed by the display and not a little scared, but he finally moved towards her, soaked to the skin, pulling himself along on ropes rigged along the trawler for this purpose. The green had faded and vanished and the globes of green fire shot off back into the heart of the storm and disappeared. She turned to him now, and he saw on her face an expression unlike he’d ever seen on a human being before, a wicked, self-satisfied grin and eyes lit with joy. She herself frightened him more at this moment than the enemy did.

  Forward, the captain had not seen the full display but he’d seen the helicopters fall and heard their demise and he was taking full advantage of it. He brought the ship around into the wind and prepared to ride out the storm, but before he could do more than take the elementary precautions the storm clouds rolled back in unnatural motion, a reverse wave returning to its original course, and the wind died down and the rain stopped.

  MacDonald stared into those strange, large brown eyes not quite daring to think, but he knew he had to snap out of it. With great effort he turned and made his way forward again. She followed him, holding on to the rope now herself but in a more casual manner than he found necessary. He opened the door and she re-entered the cabin, but he then continued on forward and entered the wheelhouse.

  Garcia saw him, and saw his expression, but did not press it. “The radar is showing the storm receding rapidly to the northwest,” the navigator informed him. “There are several large and small vessels but a few kilometers to the south, though. One or more must be the one they were herding us toward. What should we do? If we can see them, then they can see us.”

  The very news that they weren’t out of danger yet seemed to jolt him out of his daze and bring him back somewhat to reality. “We can’t afford to meet them, and they have this ship marked now. We have to—”

  At that moment the captain let loose a string of Spanish that even MacDonald knew contained some choice expletives.

  “Three small craft have detached themselves from the largest vessel and are headed our way,” Garcia told him.

  “Probably small gunboats. How close are we to the mainland at this point?”

  “About thirty kilometers, senor. Over two hours in this sea. They will catch up to us before that.”

  He was all business now and thinking fast. This sort of situation was one in which he was at his best, and the pressure and continued danger helped shove the fear of other things back from his mind. “We’re already in somebody’s territorial waters. Whose?”

  “Venezuela, senor.”

  “Get on the radio. Call the Venezuelan Coast Guard on the emergency frequency. Identify yourself, give your position, and state that you have come under sttack by pirates. Ask for protection if possible.”

  “But they will hear, too!”

  “Yeah, I know. That doesn’t matter. Do it!”

  Reception was poor; there was still a lot of electrical interference from the storm and its aftermath, but Garcia finally got
through. A Venezuelan navy destroyer answered, being closest to them, and after an exchange of positions they headed for it.

  There were suddenly other voices on the channel, all talking furiously in Spanish.

  “They are identifying themselves as Caribean Pact Security Forces and state that they are not pirates but in pursuit of a criminal ship. They ask that the Venezuelan forces stand down and allow them to reach and board us.”

  They all sweated the next few minutes. MacDonald was counting on the Venezuelan captain, who now had two different versions to contend with and had to make a decision. He did, and it was the only one he could have made under the circumstances.

  “Capitan Gonsalves has replied,” Garcia told him. “He says that this is all in Venezuelan territorial waters, that our registration checks out, and that the Caribbean Security Forces have no jurisdiction here, which is true. He demands that their forces break off and retreat to international waters. They are protesting. They do not like being told what to do.” Garcia was grinning.

  MacDonald turned to watch the radar screen. For a while, the three small blips continued to close on them, and he began to fear that they were going to take their chances with the destroyer. He knew that on their mother ship they were radioing for instructions and calculating the odds.