"Give him a minute." Dewey crossed and turned down the street. She stopped at the corner.
"Just got a newspaper," Dewey whispered. "Continuing down Eliot."
West turned the corner and the procession resumed. Eliot Street was narrow and dark with dingy apartment buildings on both sides. She had a feeling that this was where they were headed. "Let me go in first," she whispered to Dewey over the phone. "When I'm inside, get the exits covered immediately. I'll tell you when to follow me up."
"Yes, ma'am."
There was something in his tone she didn't like. She knew what he was thinking: the boss wants the glory. Well, she had earned it. Someday he would get the glory too, if he was lucky.
Bernardi turned and trudged up a set of steps. West increased her pace slightly. As soon as Bernardi was inside the apartment building she broke into a run and signaled to Dewey, who started giving instructions to the others over his phone.
She raced across the street and up the steps. Near the top she felt something give way and her knee cracked hard against the concrete. Through the haze of pain her first thought was: it's a trap. Then she looked down and saw the large patch of ice on which she had slipped. Fool. Too eager, too careless. And Dewey was watching her. She staggered to the top of the steps, trying to ignore the pain. Luckily, the front door wasn't locked—she knew she didn't have the composure to jimmy it. She got to the elevator in time to see its indicator stop at three. Another break. She took a deep breath and headed up the stairway.
Each stair brought a stab of pain. Had to be ignored. She wondered if Dewey was pleased. Would they remember to cover the roof? Damn coat was hard to run in. Was this the third floor?
She slipped into the corridor just as a door closed on a blue parka. She limped down to the door and glanced at its number. Then she backed away. "It's 314," she whispered into her phone. "Are the exits covered?"
"Front and back are all set," Dewey replied. "Callaghan's on his way up to the roof now. You want the rest of us to come up?"
Let me give the orders, she thought. "One in the downstairs lobby. The rest up here. Use the stairs."
"Right."
Now, she thought, rest and wait for the reinforcements. But what was the point of that? There was no danger. The sooner she got inside the better. They would think she was showboating, of course. Let them.
She went up to the door. It looked flimsy; a well-placed kick would have done the job, but that wasn't in her repertoire just now. Instead she knocked.
There were footsteps, then a muffled "Yes?"
"It's Mrs. Esposito from upstairs," she said in a strangled, gasping voice. "I dunno what to do, the radiator busted and there's hot water whooshin' all over the place and they cut off my phone 'cause I missed a month. I can't go to the super 'cause they're tryin' ta kick me out anyway so could I use your phone please, I'll pay you, honest."
The door opened a crack. The chain was still in place. Bernardi looked into her eyes, and she looked back, and he trusted her. He let her in.
"Your leg's bleeding," he said to her.
"I know it," she replied, fumbling in her pockets. "Somedays nothin' goes right." She produced her gun and ID. "You're under arrest, Father. Please don't move."
He looked surprised and hurt for a moment, and then just laughed as half a dozen agents appeared breathless in the doorway with guns drawn. "I guess you've got me," he said. "What's the charge, may I ask?"
West shrugged. "Kidnapping will do. Somebody read him his rights. Everyone else fan out and search the place."
The apartment was small, so not much fanning out could be done. West led the way into the bedroom, where someone lay sleeping face down on a messy bed. She snapped up the drawn shade and watched him stir and turn.
He opened his eyes and silently stared at her. She registered his looks: short, dark hair, dark eyes, broad ears... and, damn it, she couldn't tell. It was close, but not exact. She knew there were blood tests and so on that would be conclusive, but she didn't have time. So, was she looking at a human or an alien? It was unnerving. "Do you speak English?" she asked, idiotically, and the creature in the bed made no sign he understood.
She broke away from his puzzled gaze, finally, and shrugged in resignation. He was all she had. "Take him and let's go," she said. "We're in a hurry."
She went back into the other room. Bernardi was standing there, handcuffed, at ease, watched by an agent. "Is that him?" she demanded.
Bernardi laughed. "Tenon? Of course not. It's Pete Rigoli, works in a pizza shop on Eustis Ave."
West thought: Does he expect me to believe that?. She gave a few orders and limped out into the corridor. Her knee was killing her.
* * *
She found out for certain on the helicopter ride to Massachusetts. He laughed—quietly chuckling at one of Bernardi's remarks. It didn't register until she noticed his quick gaze in her direction and then she realized: Tenon doesn't understand English. Not enough to laugh at it, anyway. Therefore this isn't Tenon.
"Bastards," she muttered, and they both grinned.
West looked out the window, not wanting them to get any more enjoyment out of her reaction. Things were bad enough as they stood. Her knee throbbed dully. She hadn't had a chance to have it worked on. And she felt the beginning of a headache. Not enough sleep.
There was also a funny taste in her mouth. She couldn't place it for a while, and then she thought of the smell of cheap cologne and the connection was made. It was the lingering cardboardy aftertaste of the host she had swallowed. Her blasphemy had not been overlooked, she supposed.
It was almost enough to make you believe in God.
Chapter 27
"We have heard it stated," Clement said softly to the congregation, "that mankind's knowledge has outstripped its religions. The Church fights losing battles against Galileo and Darwin, and people's faith is shaken. Is the Church nothing more than a relic of ancient ignorance, vainly reinterpreting its doctrines in an attempt to reconcile them with modern facts?
"We would suggest that the opposite is true, that science is struggling fitfully toward truths our spiritual nature has always apprehended. And chief among these is the interdependence of all life, all matter. As you did it to one of the least of these my brethren, you did it to me. Ask the ecologist, the physicist if that is not a scientific truth as well.
"Always our perspectives are widening, but the moral basis for our response to these perspectives has always been there. Love thy neighbor as thyself. Science makes the starving African our neighbor, and the homeless Indian, and the oppressed Cambodian, and we realize our actions affect them, they cannot be ignored. Now we have a new neighbor, and science struggles to understand why, and how. But the moral, the spiritual response to this knowledge already exists, and it is right. If we falter in our application of these spiritual truths, then truly religion's claim to superiority is lost. This is a crucial time for mankind, not the least because these truths are being put to the test.
"That is why we ask for God's blessing on our work, and your prayers. The truths will always be there, but men and women must always seek the strength to put them into practice. That strength can only exist with God's help. Let us stand and profess our faith. I believe in one God..."
* * *
Collingwood hung back amid the crowd of people outside the rectory as Clement entered the limousine. Clement motioned to him. "Get in, Anthony."
Collingwood obeyed. The limousine moved off down the highway, surrounded by flashing lights and wailing sirens. Clement stared out the window.
"It was not just self-interest—was it, Anthony?" he said after a while. "You really thought it was right, didn't you?"
"Yes, Holiness."
Clement nodded. "Only God can see into a man's soul. And, I suppose, only He knows what is truly right. There is a diocese open in your native state. Rochester? Albany?"
"Rochester, Holiness."
"I knew you would know. Would you like to be bishop of
Rochester, Anthony?"
"I would very much like that."
"Good. Then at least something will have been settled this morning."
* * *
Clement stood outside the motel. Technicians rushed by, stringing cables and carrying complicated-looking machines. "What is all this for?" he asked Ashanti.
"For when they depart," Ashanti replied. "Professor Aronson wants to measure everything that can be measured. He believes he can find clues to the way the ship operates."
"Do you think he will discover anything?"
"Ah, science is beyond me, your Holiness. Professor Aronson is a very brilliant man. If there is anything to be found, he will find it. What do you think?"
Clement shrugged. "I am as ignorant as you. I wish him luck."
* * *
Angela Summers came up to him and kissed his ring. Then she looked at him with concern. "Holiness, I—"
"Don't worry, child. Everything is fine." He reached into his pocket. "Here is your handkerchief back. It was washed and pressed this morning. We shall not need it today."
Angela looked at it, and then silently smiled her thanks.
"Are they ready for us?" Clement asked Bacquier.
"Any time, your Holiness."
As they walked to the ship Clement noticed the soldiers, weapons by their sides, faces expressionless, waiting. Above them, a lone bird circled in the cold blue sky.
* * *
The room smelled of sweat, hut not the sweat that he was familiar with: its odor was somehow sweeter, riper, more exotic. The walls of the room were covered with posters of men he did not recognize, with hand-lettered slogans in a language he did not understand. The black men sat on wooden stools and stared at him, expressionless. Their weapons lay across their laps; they moved their hands over them constantly, unconsciously, like women stroking kittens.
"What do I want with your life, man?" Kuntasha asked. "That is too easy. It gets me nowhere. Perhaps you think you are brave, but don't you think that, if I could get what I wanted for my people by giving up my own life, I would do so? Any man in this room would. But the world is not interested."
"Sometimes it is."
Kuntasha slammed the table with an open palm; the other men's hands stopped moving on their weapons. "You are a fool, man. The world is interested in power. I shoot myself, the world goes about its business. I shoot you, or the Prime Minister, the world takes notice, but nothing happens. I blow up London, the world maybe changes."
"For the better?"
"Maybe. For us, anyway."
"Is it worth living in a world that has been changed in that way?"
Kuntasha looked bored and exasperated by the question, and the archbishop worried that he would grow tired of all the talk. But finally he responded. "Maybe. If the world doesn't change, it sure is not worth living in, I tell you that."
"If you could kill me, and by doing so achieve your goal—realizing I have done you no harm and wish you only peace—would you kill me?"
Kuntasha stared at him for a long while and then stood up. He walked over to the filthy window and gazed down at the barricaded street; his long black fingers traced a meaningless pattern in the accumulated grease and soot. "Yes," he said wearily. "I would cut your heart out, if I had to."
The archbishop closed his eyes. What, after all, had he expected? And yet, there was the weariness in the man's voice. It was not the weariness of a man who had answered too many pointless questions, but a deeper, more lasting weariness, a weariness of the spirit. The archbishop thought he understood it. If he did, there was something to talk about, a common ground. And there had to be a common ground. If there wasn't, his faith was meaningless, and he refused to believe that.
"Well," he said, "let us put that option aside for the time being and explore some alternatives."
Kuntasha turned back to him, puzzled, and then erupted with laughter.
Was it merely a reflection of his own tension, or could he see the strain in the face of the crew member who brought him down the tiled corridor to Zanla's office, could he feel it in that room, even before Zanla arrived, bringing with him a tall green-robed woman?
"I greet you in the name of the Numoi. This is the Priestess Ergentil, whom I have asked to join us for this final meeting. She is my trusted adviser."
Priestess. She, then, was the enemy, the one whose religion persecuted Tenon and the other followers of Chitlan. They stared at each other curiously across the table—she is thinking the same thing about me, of course—and then her gaze broke away and went to Zanla.
"I have never seen her before," Angela whispered to Clement.
Curious. Was she the real leader, only now, at the end, making her presence known? Impossible to say. But the way she and Zanla looked at each other made it clear that he would have to convince them both.
"We are willing to listen once again to what you have to say about our mutual problem," Zanla said. "But once again it is not clear to me how useful our discussion can be, if you do not agree to return our crew member. We will not let the secret of the Ship be revealed."
Clement continued to stare at the priestess. Did she hate him, for the threat he posed to her beliefs, her civilization? Perhaps, but he could detect no trace of hatred in her eyes. Was that because he did not know what hatred looked like on an alien face? Perhaps, but even then...
No, he realized, she was not the enemy, even if she had murdered a hundred Chitlanians, even if she would personally blow up the Earth—or cut his heart out. She was no more an enemy than Kuntasha had been. Enmity was a false conclusion, derived from the terrifying complexity of life. It was the easy interpretation, and its result was so much suffering that Clement could not bear to think of it. The true conclusion would not end the suffering (which was a necessary part of existence) but at least it did not cause any more—unless one counted a Crucifixion.
Things change, the power comes.
"Zanla, the reason I have come to you today is to tell you that it is too late. The secret has already been revealed."
The aliens were silent as Angela finished her translation. They looked at each other once, quickly, and then Zanla said, "What is the secret then?"
Clement breathed deeply and stared into his eyes. "Bondmates and the retheo," he said quietly. "When things change, and the power comes." He paused, then added hurriedly, "We have bonding too. We call it love."
"Tenon," Zanla muttered angrily. "Tenon has—"
"Love?" Ergentil interrupted, speaking for the first time. "Perhaps we are not sufficiently familiar with that word."
Clement paused again, gazing at her now. "It is what you two feel for each other," he said finally. "And it is what I, despite our problems, feel for both of you, for all your race. It is the most powerful feeling of which we are capable, and the best."
"If you think that this is our secret, then why can't you travel the way we do?" Ergentil asked.
"Because we do not yet know how to harness it," Clement replied. "But that knowledge will come. You have heard of and seen the powers of our science. All we need to know is the right question to ask, and we will find the answer. When you leave, the most advanced devices of our science will be recording what happens. The scientists will know what to look for now."
"Your science is capable of much," Zanla said, "but I think perhaps it is not capable of this."
"In that case the mystery will be left to people like me, who know nothing about science, but something of love. In any case, we will learn what there is to learn."
"And once it has been learned, will you use your love to destroy us?" Ergentil asked.
"I cannot speak for all humans, but I know that if I came to your planet through love, I would come in order to love. I would want to bond with you as I bond with my fellow human beings. Others may choose differently, but you no longer have control over the choice."
"How do we know—" Zanla started to say, and stopped. Another silence, an exchange of glances. "We will speak
about this privately," he said finally. "Please excuse us."
* * *
A dim, naked light bulb illuminated Kuntasha's tired features. The odor of the archbishop's own sweat now mingled with that of the others. "This will not work, you know," Kuntasha said. "The government will not accept it. Or if they do, things may get better for a time, but then the evil will return. The evil always returns."
"Perhaps you are right. But it will not come through us, and that is all we can ask."
Kuntasha shrugged, with the air of a man who would never know victory, only lesser forms of defeat. "I will put the terms to a vote, then." But the decision was already made.
* * *
"Is it true?" Angela whispered. "I know what Sabbata said but—did you learn any of it from Tenon?"
"I never said I learned it from Tenon, child. Is it true? I don't know. I would like it to be true, and perhaps my wishes added certainty to my words. Perhaps it is an approximation of the truth, which is all we mortals can hope for, without divine revelation."
"I hope it's true too."
Clement covered her hand with his.
* * *
"Is it true, Zanla?"
"I don't know. How can I know? They are only words. They sound reasonable, but—"
"He knows about bonding and the retheo. Is there any way he could have known, except from Tenon?"
"They were forbidden topics. He did not hear of them from us."
"Then the Pope is right," Ergentil said. "This is all a waste. There is nothing to do now but return, and prepare."
"Or rely on their love."
"Do you think we can?"
"I don't know."
Ergentil covered his hand with hers.
* * *
"We do not think it proper of you not to return Tenon to us," Zanla said, "but you will not be persuaded. Please believe me, we have never had any wish to harm you or your fellow humans; we trust that you feel the same way toward us. We will not, therefore, carry out our threat toward you. We depart instead—with the hope that, if we meet again, we shall meet in peace."
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