by Mark Anthony
He began to understand, though not completely. In that moment he realized how far beyond him all of this was. Yet he probed where he could, asking what questions he dared of the agents of Duratek. He would color the words of the Big Voice he was to relay to them, or even speak small falsehoods to see how they reacted. That was how he came to know he was right; the world the Big Voice spoke of was not this world. It was another world, a world from which the Voice came. A world to which Duratek intended to go.
When at last he learned this, it occurred to Carson to flee back over the dusty plains to Kansas. Except that was impossible. He couldn't give up what he had wrought here; no matter how it had come to him, he loved his cathedral and his followers. Besides, if they sensed his doubt, it would all be over. They would discard him and find someone new, another prophet to raise in his place.
Or they would find a way to make him obey.
It had begun not long after he started preaching in the Steel Cathedral. Your flock has grown great in number, the Big Voice told him. It is time for you to offer up a lamb on the altar to the one who brought your followers to you.
At first it was just one or two at a time. Carson culled them from his congregation with care. He chose those least likely to be missed: the homeless, the lonely, or the elderly who had been abandoned by their families. The Angels of Light came and led them away.
He was terrified the first time the Angels appeared, but the Big Voice told him not to fear them. Still, he did. They were tall and beautiful to behold, thin as wisps inside the halos of silvery light that followed them. Their eyes were like large jewels, and they had no mouths. Nor did they have wings. Weren't angels supposed to have wings?
What was done to the people after the Angels of Light took them away, Carson didn't know, at least not at first, but when he saw them again they were . . . different. Their faces were smoother, calmer. Harder. A fervent light shone in their eyes.
Their hearts are strong now, the Big Voice told Carson when he asked what had been done to them. Their doubts have been taken away.
As time passed, Carson began to think it was something else that had been taken from them, something warm and human. Then, one night, he grew bold enough to follow the Angels of Light. He watched what they did with an old homeless man in a chamber deep beneath the cathedral, and he learned the truth. Iron. They were given hearts of iron.
He had fled, and had not said anything about it. He didn't dare, not if he didn't want his own doubts, his own heart, to be taken by the Angels of Light. Soon it was not one or two at a time, but three or four or five. Every day, the Big Voice asked for more, and every day it grew harder to find people in the congregation who would not be missed.
Finally, over the course of the last week, Carson had grown desperate. The homeless people of Denver had grown wary; there were no longer enough who could be lured to the cathedral with the promise of charity. Carson no longer cared if those he selected had husbands and wives, sons and daughters. Any who seemed weak and lost enough, who could be persuaded that something better than this life awaited them, were led to the Angels of Light. The reports of the missing were all over the news.
“Speak to me,” Carson whispered, gazing at the mirror.
The man gazing back had an ageless, slightly plastic quality, as if the thick makeup he had worn all these years had been bonded to his face by the hot stage lights.
“Please,” he whispered. “Tell me what to do.”
Silence. He stared at the mirror. There—Mary had missed a lock of hair. It stood out. He picked up the brush, but his hand trembled. More hairs strayed from formation, falling out of line. He would have to call Mary back.
More, spoke the Voice in his mind. I want more.
The brush slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor.
“I can't,” he murmured. “The police are getting suspicious. I received a phone call from an officer yesterday. A Sergeant Otero.”
The men of Duratek will deal with this Sergeant Otero. The end of all things comes soon. You have nothing to fear, as long as you are faithful to me.
Carson clenched the arms of the chair. “I have always been faithful to you.”
Yes, so do not fail me now, when my time is close at hand. A great battle comes, the likes of which this world has never seen. Soon my servants will open the way for me, and when they do, I must have an army to march at my side.
There was a pause, a blessed silence. Then, The Angels of Light come. Have more people for them to take. Do not make them take you instead.
A roaring sound filled his ears, and he leaned over in the chair. Nausea clenched his gut, and his head spun, as it always did when the Big Voice was done talking with him.
When the dizziness had mostly passed, he sat up and turned the chair toward a closed-circuit television in the wall. It displayed a camera shot of the half-full auditorium; his flock was already gathering. He fumbled for a remote control and pressed a button.
The scene on the TV changed, showing another view of the auditorium: smiling people, their faces expectant, hopeful. No, they looked as though they were loved, as if they would be missed. That wouldn't do. He couldn't risk more interest from the police, no matter what the Big Voice said. Carson pushed the button again, and again.
He stopped. Now the TV showed a pair of unshaven men in mismatched clothes sitting near the back of the auditorium: a small, pudgy, bald fellow whose face was wrought into a permanent glare, and a gaunt man, perhaps Native American, his face placid, his big hands folded in his lap.
Carson set down the remote control. Relief washed through him, and he shut his eyes. Those two fellows, he spoke to the darkness inside his mind as he pictured the two homeless men. Take those two.
His eyes opened. That was it. Ones with hearts of iron would approach the two in the audience, would tell them they had been chosen for a special meeting, and would lead them away. They wouldn't resist; no one ever did. After all, who wouldn't want to meet an angel?
Carson lifted a fluttering hand, trying to smooth his mussed hair back into place, but he only made things worse. Sweat beaded his makeup; it was beginning to run. Mary would have to powder it. Yes, he had to call for Mary.
Carson reached out, but instead of picking up the phone, he opened a drawer. Inside was a large envelope. He opened it and pulled out a sheet of film. He held it up to the lights that surrounded the mirror.
It was an X ray. He could see his spine, his ribs, his heart, and the pale outlines of his lungs like the wings of an angel. Only one of the wings was marred by a dark blot.
The doctors had first detected it a year ago. They told him they had to do a biopsy, that the rate at which it was growing suggested it was malignant. He had told them no, that it was up to God to heal him. However, each time he went to the doctors, the blot was larger—a shadow reaching out to replace his own heart. God had not healed him. Soon, God would call him home.
Or would God cast him down into the fiery pits of Hell for what he had done?
Forgive me, he prayed. Not to the Big Voice, but to something purer, more distant. Please forgive me. Show me how I can redeem myself before you take me.
No answer came to him, but the silence was as sweet as a benediction. Man's mortal ears were not fit for the voice of God. He knew that now, if he knew anything at all.
Another knock at the door. “Ten minutes, Mr. Carson.”
He bent down and picked up the hairbrush, clenching his fingers around the handle until they no longer trembled. Then Sage Carson brushed his hair.
47.
The streets of Denver slipped past the windows of the car; the tinted glass cast the world into premature night.
Travis sighed. Was that what the world—both worlds—would be like if Mohg stepped through the gate to Eldh? He was the Lord of Nightfall. If he ruled, would the sun ever rise again? Or would all things be forever shrouded in gloom?
“What is it, Travis?” Vani sat beside him on the backseat of the car,
Beltan next to her. She hesitated, then touched his hand. “Are you afraid of what we do?”
He turned from the window and grinned despite the churning of his stomach. “How could I be afraid of anything when you and Beltan are here?”
“Hey,” Anders said in a wounded tone, turning around in the front seat. “What are Deirdre and I—chopped liver?”
Travis laughed. This was completely absurd. It was five of them against a fortress of steel. Then again, he couldn't think of five other people in the world—in any world—who would have a better chance of getting in there than they did. That was, if they had any chance at all.
Outside the windows, sharp towers jutted into the dusky sky. The car came to a halt.
“Do you have the videotape?” Deirdre said to Anders.
He slapped the breast pocket of his suit coat. “Got it right here, safe and sound.”
Deirdre switched off the ignition. “All right, everyone, put on your most pious faces. Remember, we're just a group of audience members. We love Sage Carson's show, and we can't wait to speak a few prayers.”
Beltan gave an enthusiastic nod. “I'll speak my prayers to Vathris.”
Anders cleared his throat. “Wrong god, mate.”
“Nonsense,” Beltan said. “Vathris is the god of warriors. What other god would I speak my prayers to?”
“Well, the thing is, according to these folks, there's only one god.”
Beltan scowled. “That hardly gives a person much of a choice.”
“I think that's sort of the point,” Deirdre said. “Entire nations have gone to war to prove not just that their god is the right one, but the only one.”
The blond knight let out a breath of exasperation. “I've never heard of such foolishness. Why shouldn't people be able to follow the god that best suits them? I'm beginning to think this is a very silly world.”
“I won't argue with you there,” Anders said, and got out of the car.
They joined the crowds of people hurrying across the gigantic parking lot, huddled inside their coats. It was too cold to talk, but there was no need; they had spent all day back at the hotel going over the plan. Such as it was.
“I was right,” Anna Ferraro had said after she showed up at their suite last night. After he told her what they wanted to do. “You really are a complete nut, aren't you?”
Travis had laughed. “You still came.”
Some of her annoyance changed into astonishment. She nodded, and he closed the door behind her.
For the next several hours, he and the others had watched while Ferraro spoke with Dr. Larsen. At first the reporter was skeptical; investigative journalists had been trying to pin all sorts of misdoings on Duratek for years, only to no avail. Then Larsen popped the disk into Deirdre's computer, and all of them watched the evidence flicker across the screen—the memos, the reports, the results of the tests performed on human subjects. Doubt wasn't an option; not only had Duratek created Electria, they were behind the entire trade in the illegal drug.
Ferraro pulled a small digital video camera out of a bag, a glint in her eyes. “Let's get to work, Doctor. We've got a multinational corporation to bring down.”
They had done the interview there in the suite. Ferraro had wanted to bring Kevin, the photojournalist she had worked with at the television station, but Travis had told her to come alone, so she set up the shot herself. She interviewed Larsen on the couch for over an hour. They had printed out some of the most damning pieces of evidence, and Larsen held them up for the camera as she spoke in precise sentences.
Once they were done, Deirdre downloaded the video to her computer, and Larsen cut the piece together, muttering an almost constant stream of profanities.
“I'm a reporter, not an editor,” she growled and lit another cigarette.
She kept working, and by midnight it was done. They exported two copies out to tape. One for Ferraro, and one for the rest of them. In addition, Deirdre duplicated the disk. After they were done, Travis looked at Ferraro.
“So, do you think this will save your career?”
The reporter picked up one of the tapes. “Screw my career. This will save lives.” She slipped it into her camera bag.
“I'm sorry in advance for bringing it up,” Anders said, “but what's going to happen to the doc here?” He glanced at Larsen, who sat motionless on the couch. “After all, she took part in some illicit activities herself at Duratek.”
“Immunity,” Ferraro said, turning toward Larsen. “The government will give you immunity in a heartbeat if you promise to testify for them. You'd be wise to take it.”
Larsen's eyes were frightened; she nodded.
The weekday edition of Carson's show, Hour of Salvation, aired in the afternoon. However, tomorrow's show was the Saturday edition, which was broadcast in the evening. Ferraro made a phone call—she was jobless, but she still had friends in the business—and scored five tickets to the production.
“Thank you,” Travis told her before she left, not knowing what else to say.
She hesitated at the door. “Air that tape. Tell the truth about those bastards. That's all the thanks I need.”
Then the door shut, and she was gone. Ferraro had taken Dr. Larsen with her. The two women were going to hole up in Ferraro's apartment, then they were heading straight to the police once the story broke. If the story broke.
The five of them reached the doors of the Steel Cathedral. Spires of glass and metal soared overhead, like claws raking the darkening sky. They waited their turn in line, held out their tickets, and passed through.
As they entered the cathedral, Travis kept waiting for an alarm to sound, for a voice to blare over the loudspeaker. Alert! Unbelievers! Infidels! Alert!
However, nothing happened, and they moved along unnoticed with everyone else. It was a varied crowd. Upscale, working-class, jobless. Small children in strollers and elderly hobbling on canes. The only common denominator was the look on their faces: desperate, empty, searching. These were people who needed something, anything to believe in, and Sage Carson had given it to them: hope, salvation. Too bad all of it was a lie.
Travis craned his neck as they passed through the soaring lobby, trying to see if there was any sign of Marty and Jay. By now the two men probably thought he had abandoned them, and he supposed he had. However, he wanted them to know why, to know how important this was.
There was no sign of them. Travis sighed, letting the crowd jostle him forward. He was being swept toward the doors that led to the auditorium. Beltan gripped his arm, pulling him aside. He found himself and the others pressed close to a wall, behind a group of potted trees.
“Well, we made it in,” Deirdre said, her smoky jade eyes serious. “Then again, that was the easy part.”
Their plan was simple: get to the control room that housed the show's production facilities, take over, put in the videotape, and play it on the gigantic television screen that dominated the back of the stage where Sage Carson preached. There was just one problem with simple plans—they never seemed to stay simple for long. According to the blueprints of the cathedral, the control room was backstage; there were bound to be security guards. Besides, there was something else Travis intended to do while he was here.
“You've got the radios?” Anders said to Vani and Beltan. “And you're sure you know how to use them?”
Vani's eyes flashed gold. “We know.” The assassin wore slacks and a loose-fitting blouse, but Travis could hear the faint creak of her leathers beneath.
Anders held up his hands. “Just checking, sweetheart. No need to think about stabbing anyone.”
“Vani doesn't need knives to kill people,” Beltan said with a cheerful grin.
“No, just a look,” Anders muttered.
It was time to go into action before their nerves got the better of them. “It's fifteen minutes until showtime,” Travis said. “We'd better get moving.” He looked at Beltan, then Vani. “Good luck.” It was all he could think to say.
“We'll see you soon, Travis,” Beltan said.
Vani only gazed at him, then the two turned and disappeared into the crowd.
“Come on,” Deirdre said, touching Travis's arm.
The plans of the Steel Cathedral that Deirdre's mysterious Philosopher friend had sent were shockingly detailed. The drawing showed a guard station at the main entrance to the backstage area. There was another way to get backstage, through a smaller maintenance corridor. There was a guard station there as well, but the plans noted it was staffed by a single guard. That was the direction Travis, Deirdre, and Anders headed.
It was easy to blend in with the crowds of people buying souvenir pins, T-shirts, and CDs before heading to their seats. Travis caught sight of several security guards; patches with the crescent moon of the Duratek logo were sewn to their dark blue uniforms. However, the guards never even looked in their direction. It seemed odd there were so few of them, yet it made sense. What was there to guard up here?
The gate is below the cathedral, Travis. The blueprints showed a whole complex of rooms down there. This building is far larger than it has to be to hold two thousand people. It wasn't built this way to catch God's attention; it was built to hide what they're doing.
They ducked down a narrow side corridor.
“All right, partner,” Anders said. “If the map your spooky little Philosopher chum gave you is spot on, the maintenance corridor is right through there.”
“It is,” Deirdre said, approaching a door.
“Wait,” Travis said, panic rising. “That sign says an alarm will sound if the door is opened.”
Anders winked at him. “Don't believe everything you read, mate.” He pulled a small black device—about the size of a quarter, but thicker—from his pocket. He pressed it to the door, and some adhesive held it in place. A red light on the device flashed.
“It's activated,” he said to Deirdre.
She pushed through the door. Travis hunched his shoulders, bracing for the wail of an alarm. There was only silence.