True Path

by Graham Storrs

  “I’m sure going to try. And I’m going to disestablish the Church of the Lord’s True Path, ’cause I’m going to bring back the old separation of church and state. I’m going to abolish the Sons of Joshua and curtail all the summary judgment powers that various law enforcement agencies have been given. I may have to rebuild the FBI from scratch. Now, if you’ll excuse me a moment. My food’s getting cold.”

  He mumbled a quick prayer and began eating. Sandra was feeling somewhat deflated. It was easy to hate him when he was a crazy terrorist, easier still when she thought he was a crazy, religious terrorist, but not so easy when he talked sense and sounded like he might just be a good guy after all.

  Then she remembered the timesplash.

  “OK. So you’re not quite as evil as I thought you were. Maybe. Why don’t you tell me about how you plan to kill all these people we’re having breakfast with?”

  He thought for a moment and then asked, “If you wanted to get rid of an oppressive government that has murdered millions of your people—possibly tens of millions—and controls your country with fear and violence while plunging it ever deeper into poverty and ignorance in the name of a bizarre and twisted theology that maybe no-one at the top of government even believes in these days, except as an expedient, how would you go about it?”

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me?”

  “No, seriously. Think about it. You can’t hold an election. You can’t just ask the evil, bloodsucking scum to hand back their power. What can you do? You could wait, maybe, until this generation of rulers dies off, and maybe the next, and the next, until things just start drifting back to some kind of normality. It might happen. But could you risk it? Could you stake the lives of hundreds of millions of people on that possibility? And if it takes twenty more years, or fifty, or a hundred, how do you justify all those generations of murder and oppression?”

  “All right, all right, so you have some kind of revolution. Is that what you want me to say?”

  “Yes. A revolution. The people rise up and take back the country. But we’re in a bad way here. Worse than any oppressed people in history, I’d say. The Government not only has the usual tools of repression—the state police, its militias and armies, its courts and its punitive laws—but it also has a twenty-first century technology making it almost invincible. Technology that isn’t shared with the rest of us.

  “When this government took over, the U.S. was a superpower. The arsenal includes everything from non-lethal riot control weapons, to ICBMs and cruise missiles with nuclear warheads. And that means no other country would risk supporting a resistance movement. Would you want to start a war with a nuclear power that could wipe you out at the flick of a switch? No, of course not. That’s why Europe and China are happy to sit back and wait until things just sort themselves out over here. Trust me. I’ve spoken to their foreign ministers and I’ve gotten it from them first hand. The only way they would be willing to help us is if we could deal a decisive blow at the heart of the Government and it looked like we were a cinch to win.”

  “Hence the timesplash.”

  He sat back in his seat. “Give the lady a coconut.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier to steal a nuke or something?”

  “Not really. It’s easier to steal old F2 generators and computers—and kidnap pretty young hellcats to plug the pieces together.”

  “You’ve got Matthew for that. What do you need me for?”

  “For Plan B, that’s what.” He leaned forward, speaking more softly. “I told you about Plan A. We were going to go back to 2025. The idea was to steal a car, drive over to the Capitol and shoot Isaiah Douglass, the founder of the Church of the Lord’s True Path. He was a nobody then, and he visited the Capitol on the seventeenth of September that year at ten AM to take a tour, just like anybody else. If we timed it right, we could have done the lob while the whole House was sitting. The backwash would have brought down everything within a two mile radius.” He leaned in farther. “That would have gotten the White House too.”

  “But you couldn’t get the accuracy.”

  “And we didn’t have any confirmation of what was here at the lob site back in September 2025. We lost a lot of people and we never once achieved the objective.”

  “And you think I can improve the accuracy?”

  Polanski shook his head. “Maybe, but we still wouldn’t know what the bricks would find when we lobbed them back there. The plan’s useless without that.”

  “So?”

  “So we need Plan B. A complete rethink. Even though a short lob with little travel at the far end is the best way to control the situation and gives us the best chance of success, a lot of the information we need was lost during the Adjustment. It’s like all the fine detail just got wiped from the record. Sadly, the information people held back then was on computers, and when companies collapsed in their thousands and the power went off almost everywhere, no-one thought to put the computers somewhere safe so they could be resurrected one day. People were too busy starving and dying, I guess. So it’s all gone.”

  Sandra was already thinking ahead of him. If a short, controlled lob was no good, maybe something more radical would serve better. Something Sandra was a world expert in.

  “You want to do a long lob, back into deep time! That’s why that little shit teknik of yours said I was perfect for the job.”

  He winced and leaned into her again. “If you could try not shouting that out loud, I’d appreciate it. Most of these folks are friends, but you never know.”

  “It’s crazy. No-one’s ever sent anything but small discrete packages of scientific instruments back more than a hundred and fifty years. No-one would dare.” A squadron of British SAS soldiers still held the record for the longest manned lob, and all but one of them died doing it. Sandra was there and had seen the bodies. “What’s your target?”

  He pointed down at the table. “Right here, 1735. There was a cabin in these parts. Early settlers. Family farmed this land for a hundred years before their property was bought up and they moved west to Oregon. But the youngest son stayed behind and made his living as a lawyer in New York. His son, another lawyer, was there in Philadelphia in 1787 when the country was founded. That gentleman gave rise to a long line of patriots and liberal thinkers. One of them, my grandma, married Wacslev Polanski, an immigrant teacher from Warsaw, and she passed the family story down to her son, Stefan, who passed it down to me.”

  “You want to do this yourself, don’t you, to make sure of the paradox?”

  Polanski nodded. “Is there a better way?”

  “You’ll die. You can’t imagine how sensitive the timestream is to intrusions that far back.”

  He shrugged. “I think it’s better that the people who lead revolutions stand aside when their work is done. Don’t you? That way they don’t get tempted to become monsters. I’m always thinking about Stalin and Mao, you know, and Fidel Castro, and Adolf Hitler. The kind of person it takes to lead a revolution isn’t the kind you want running the country afterwards.”

  What kind of new nonsense was this? “You’re not Adolf Hitler.”

  A smile twitched on his lips. “That’s kind of you to say so, but if I go back three hundred years and kill my fifteen-times great granddaddy, I might as well set off a nuke in this town. What kind of a man does that? And if I did survive it, what would I have to become to live with what I’d done? What kind of lies would I need to tell myself? What kind of delusions would I need to keep from drowning in that much innocent blood?”

  “So why are you doing this?”

  “Because it has to be done and no-one else can do it. I’m not just blowing up Washington and hoping for the best. There are people all over the country waiting for the signal. People elsewhere too. When Washington falls, the whole country will rise up.”

  “And what about me? How am I supposed to live with it if I help you?” The crazy thing was that, in the moment, she was caught up in his madness enough that i
t seemed like a question she needed to ask.

  He shook his head and looked away. He looked tired. “You’ll tell yourself I made you do it. You’ll tell yourself you came to believe in my dream. You’ll tell yourself it was the right thing to do in a world where the people in power have raised the stakes so high that only rivers of blood can keep you in the game.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  He looked up at her.

  “I think maybe you’re the right man for the peace and the wrong man for the war. You can’t justify this, even to yourself. This talk about dying in the act that brings the future you want isn’t noble martyrdom, it’s just a coward’s way of not having to face what he’s done.”

  She could see the anger build up in him like an engine being revved to full power. “Get up,” he said. “And get to work. That rig had better be assembled, programmed and ready to run in forty-eight hours.” He was snarling, a different man now. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 16: Duvalle

  The van brought Jay and Cara to another large house in an expensive-looking neighborhood. This time, it pulled into the drive and parked at the back. The three men hustled them into the house.

  It was a beautiful house, with high ceilings and polished wood floors. They entered through a spacious hallway with a sweeping staircase, and then went through a heavy paneled door into a library. Along one wall were tall, arched windows, along the others were shelves from floor to ceiling divided by a balcony halfway up with a wrought iron spiral staircase. Several reading tables and green leather armchairs were placed near the light from the windows. On the shelves were books—real, paper books—some so old they were bound in leather. It was a collection so astonishing that Jay gaped in wonder at that vast array of precious antiques, despite his predicament.

  “Good morning, Chief Inspector. Welcome to my home.”

  Jay saw a man rising from one of the leather chairs. A big man, meaty and solid, wearing a black suit and a clerical collar. He glanced at the man’s lapel but there was no silver crucifix.

  “Yeah, it’s … big,” Jay said.

  The man smiled. “Yes, it is. Perhaps I should introduce myself?” His accent was a Southern drawl and Jay could see he fancied himself as a man of culture and distinction.

  “Perhaps you should just tell us where Polanski is and let us go.”

  A frown ruffled the big man’s brow. “Let you go? Do you suppose you are my prisoner? Far from it. You are my guest. Please, take a seat and I will tell you everything you need to know. Your daughter may wait outside.”

  “My daughter stays with me.”

  The big man gave a quick look of disappointment and said, “Very well.” He looked past them to the three heavies and thanked them. “Send Mary in with some coffee and refreshments and then see that we are not disturbed.” He resumed his seat and gestured for Jay to sit down. Reluctantly he complied. Cara took the chair beside him.

  “Look, whoever you are, I didn’t come here to play out some kind of costume drama, or practice my etiquette. I got a message that suggested you could help me find Polanski. So, can you?”

  “I am the Reverend Simon Duvalle,” the big man said, as though Jay had not spoken. “You may have heard of me.”

  “No, I haven’t heard of you. But I’m a police officer with Europol. If you’re someone involved in criminal activities in Europe, I would be glad to add you to our database.” He wished he had his commplant online so he could run a search on the name. Something told him he would probably find it.

  Duvalle laughed as if Jay had made a big joke. “Well, you may have heard of my church, The Measurers of the Temple? Yes, I see you have.”

  Jay certainly had. It had never been proven, but The Measurers of the Temple had been suspected of funding the timesplash that had destroyed parts of London sixteen years ago. The one Jay and Sandra had prevented from destroying the entire city. The church had been implicated in sponsoring several other attacks around the world, all aimed at what they termed “decadent, atheist governments.” They were rich and influential in the U.S., one of the few fundamentalist sects allowed to operate under the umbrella of the Lord’s True Path as an affiliated church.

  “I know the Measurers, all right,” Jay said. “You sponsor foreign terror groups. You provide money, weapons, training, and—we suspect—your ‘missionary program’ supplies skills and personnel as required to terrorist cells that need a helping hand. The Government here allows you to operate—in fact, encourages you—because you’re doing a lot of things they’d like to but can’t do openly themselves. A kind of deniable, black ops unit for stuff even the CIA can’t touch. Did I leave anything out?”

  Duvalle kept smiling. “My, my. You really don’t like us much do you?”

  “I liked it better when churches stuck to saving souls and left the politics to less dogmatic minds.”

  Again, Duvalle laughed. “There never was such a time, Chief Inspector. Sometimes the churches have less power, as they do in Europe right now. Sometimes they have more, as in the days when the Popes commanded armies over there. But we’re always around, sleeves rolled up, doing what we can. You see, salvation isn’t just a matter of singing songs on a Sunday. It’s about creating a world where sinning is against the laws of man as well as the laws of God. And for that, the churches need power.”

  “And, for that, your church needs the Lord’s True Path.”

  “And that’s where Mr. Polanski comes in.”

  A maid entered with a tray of coffee and cakes and set it down between them. She seemed confused as she glanced around the table. “Shall I pour, sir?”

  “I’m sure Miss Malone here will do us the honor,” Duvalle said.

  Jay put a hand on Cara’s arm to stop her from erupting and said, “My daughter is not your servant, Duvalle.”

  With a sigh, Duvalle gestured at the maid to proceed. When the woman left, Duvalle picked up his fine china cup and saucer and sat back in his chair. “You know I could have you shot, Chief Inspector. It would be very easy for me. A single command. You’ve absconded from the FBI’s care, I suppose, and rich foreigners so often fall prey to the riffraff that infest this fair city.”

  Jay knew it was all true, but he also knew Duvalle was simply irritated about Cara. “All right then, have us shot. Oh wait, you’re not going to do that, are you? What could it be that’s holding you back? Oh yes, you still want something.”

  “Are all the British so ill-mannered and brutish these days? I do hope not. I like to maintain the illusion that you are a genteel and polite people. But perhaps the corrupting influence of a secular government slowly eats away at the souls of its citizens and leaves them debased and degraded.”

  Jay was growing angry. Only the slim hope that Duvalle might actually help him find Sandra kept him in his seat. “If you want to see ill-mannered and brutish, I’d be very happy to oblige. Meanwhile, can we cut the crap and get down to business?”

  Duvalle looked pained. He took a sip of his coffee and set the cup back in its saucer. He drew a deep breath before shifting his dark gaze to rest on Jay. “Polanski is a meddling fool who fancies himself as some kind of hero of the people, like a Polak Che Guevara, or somesuch. I want him out of my way.”

  “Your way?”

  Duvalle ignored him. “The man is an imbecile but he is gaining public support all the time. Now he’s kidnapped a teknik and he’s clearly planning a timesplash that he’s going to unleash any day now. That is, I clearly see his plan, and no doubt you do too, but my friends at the FBI seem to think that they have all the time in the world. They think Polanski will make demands, that he’ll try to blackmail them. They think he’s one of us, a player, a power-broker. They think he wants to get his nose in the trough, but they’re wrong. Polanski is a true believer, a fanatic. He won’t be happy until he has burned down the whole farm and everyone in it.”

  “So tell me where he is.”

  “He’s here, in Washington.”

  Jay’s
heart skipped a beat. If Polanski was here, so was Sandra. “Well?”

  “Not so fast. First, we need to agree terms.”

  “Terms? You know that if Polanski creates a timesplash, he could take out the whole city?”

  Duvalle sipped his coffee as if they were merely exchanging social pleasantries. Jay was developing a strong dislike for the man.

  “Nevertheless, you and I want quite different things, Chief Inspector. Why should I help you achieve your goals without you helping me achieve mine?”

  “Just tell me what you want.”

  The church leader lowered his cop and smiled. “I want Polanski’s head on a platter.”

  Jay gaped. Did he mean it literally? “I suppose you know the story better than I do, but I seem to remember it ended rather badly for Salome when she provided a similar service.”

  “You talk as if you had any choice. I will tell you where to find this … unmarried mother you care so much about, and you will bring me proof of Polanski’s death.”

  “I’m not a murderer. Polanski is wanted by the FBI. I’ll do my best to bring him in if I can.”

  “You still don’t understand, Chief Inspector. You will do exactly what I tell you to.”

  An uneasy feeling crept over Jay. Duvalle was not the kind to threaten him without being able to back it up. He had to get Cara out of there—and himself for that matter. He reached across to take Cara’s arm, saying, “Come on, we’re leaving,” and froze. Cara was slumped in the big chair, her head lolling to one side, her arms loose at her sides. For a terrible moment, he froze, watching her. Then, at last, her chest rose and fell. She was still alive.

  He turned to face Duvalle, eyes blazing. “What did you do?”

  Duvalle had a weapon in his hand, aimed at Jay. “See that little gadget in the ceiling?” Jay kept his eyes on Duvalle, wondering whether he could shove the coffee table into the smug bastard’s shins before Duvalle took him down. It might be worth a try. “It’s a neural damper, just like the kind they use in hospitals—I believe your police use them to immobilize criminals during arrests—only this one projects a very tight beam. I control it from my commplant. I suppose you thought we were all too primitive over here to have such technology.” Jay was thinking no such thing. His mind was overwhelmed with relief that Cara hadn’t been hurt. “Well, I’m sure we would be if our friends in the Church of the Lord’s True Path had their way. Fortunately some of us have the power to stand above their ridiculous anti-technology edicts.”