Corvan did as he was told. The outside air was thick with some sort of incense. There were two, maybe three hundred people around him, all in a circle. At the center of the circle, within a ring of torches, stood an old cargo module. Why they were looking at that, much less venerating it, Corvan couldn't understand.
Beyond that piles of junked equipment were stacked up along the side of the dome, shadows danced on inward curving walls, and moonlight poured down through the habitat's transparent top.
Someone made a monotonous droning sound and the others joined in, adding their voices in ones, twos, and threes until the entire dome vibrated to their chant. The sound had a rhythmic quality, as primal as the fear that rose to fill Corvan's throat, and very threatening. But it was seductive, too, welcoming the reporter into its embrace, inviting him to become part of the throbbing whole.
And that was the part that scared Corvan more than anything else. The thought that all the stage-managed hype could effect him, that he could be drawn into whatever it was, that he was just as vulnerable as those around him.
The chant gradually grew in intensity, building towards some sort of climax, pulling Corvan along with it. The reop fought it by activating his eye cam and wishing he were somewhere else.
Chapter Fifteen
Holes had been drilled through the cargo module's sides. Barbu Sharma used one of them to count the house. The nickering light and tightly packed bodies made it difficult to see, but there were at least two hundred people gathered inside the habitat. Not bad. Not bad at all. The old adage was correct. There really is a sucker born every minute.
He knew without checking that a large proportion of these suckers were desert rats like himself, men and women who considered themselves a cut above the more sedentary "domies," and saw him as a kindred spirit. They too had driven across endless wastelands, dealt with fatigue, and dropped a few pills to prop themselves up. They were a natural and latently powerful constituency.
A space-suited form materialized out of the darkness and waited to be recognized. It belonged to a computer tech and small-time hustler named Dubie Long. Though not a man of vision, Long was reasonably efficient, and that made him useful. His small munchkin-style face was only dimly visible in the darkness of the cargo module. Sharma turned away from the peep hole and gave him a nod.
"We're all set, boss. The last load of suckers joined the crowd five minutes ago."
Sharma frowned. "Don't refer to the faithful like that. This scam requires that you at least appear to be sincere at all times."
Long shrugged. "Sorry, boss."
"Good. Don't make that mistake again."
Long tried to look contrite and move the conversation along at the same time.
"The drivers want a raise. Two berries per trip or they walk."
Sharma felt his temper start to slip. "Tell them to go ahead! Tell them to try no berries and see how they like that! Besides, the last thing we need is a bunch of stoned drivers roaming around the wastelands."
Sharma saw the irony in his statement but didn't choose to share it with his subordinate.
Long nodded. "Okay, boss. Whatever you say."
"How about security? Is everything okay?"
"The priest is back again . . . and he brought the one-eyed reporter with him."
"Rex Corvan? How did you track them?"
"We put a tracer on his robo cam. A cute little jobber that remained dormant until we triggered it. Worked like a charm."
"Interesting."
"Yeah, they're over towards the main lock, trying to hide in the crowd. Should we grease them? They could run out of oxygen ... or fall off a ledge."
Sharma shook his head sadly. "Come on Dubie, use what's left of your mind. We grease them, the suits check it out, and the hustle goes belly-up. Does that make sense?"
"No," Long said obediently. "I guess it doesn't."
"No, I guess it doesn't," Sharma mimicked. "What I wouldn't give for an assistant with an I.Q. of more than fifty. Leave Corvan alone. The second act will be over by the time the suits check it out."
Long didn't understand what Sharma had said, but that didn't stop him from nodding wisely and saying, "Gotcha, boss."
The chanting had built to a fever pitch. The sound didn't mean anything but the faithful loved it. Sharma walked over to the makeshift ladder located at the center of the room. He climbed the first rung. He had to raise his voice to make himself heard over the crowd.
"Is the communion ready?"
"Ready and waiting."
Sharma did some mental arithmetic. He was using the berries at quite a clip. He had returned to the alien lander soon after being released from the hospital and cleaned the ship out. But at the rate of two or three hundred doses per night, the supply was falling fast. In a week, two at the most, all of the berries would be gone. He had bribed a team of chemists to synthesize the alien substance, but they had regular work to do as well and could devote little more than a few hours a day to the project. Ah well, such were the burdens of leadership. Sharma forced himself back to the present.
"Tell the spot operator to standby. I'm heading up top."
Long nodded and said something into his Suit mike as Sharma climbed the rest of the ladder. His timing was perfect. He left the hole in the top of the module just as the chant reached its climax. He held his arms up and blinked as a spotlight pinned him in its glare. His entire space suit had been painted to resemble an anatomical drawing, complete with organs, muscles, and bones.
The crowd roared and Sharma let it build. This was it. The drug beyond all other drugs. The drug for which he was willing to forsake drugs. Power!
The roar died away. Sharma let it go. He allowed the silence to build until the slightest whisper could have been heard. And then, just when it seemed as if he'd remain silent forever, Sharma spoke.
"Greetings, and welcome to the palace of peace."
Sharma paused, giving his audience time to absorb the words, to understand what he'd said. He gestured toward the dome. "Some of you are wondering how I can say that. How I can refer to a beat-up habitat as a 'palace of peace.' Well, the answer is both simple and complicated. Both obvious and hidden. Both trivial and important. Such is the duality of life."
There were monitors scattered throughout the audience, and they said, "Peace finds those who seek it." Thus prompted, the rest of the audience did likewise, until the phrase had been repeated three times.
"Yes," Sharma intoned, "peace finds those who seek it. Which is why I referred to this habitat as a palace. It, like every tiling else in the physical world, must be accepted, refurbished from within, and transformed into a palace. A place of beauty, serenity, and wisdom. Through this process peace will find each one of us. Then, and only then, will we enjoy the paradise that the great spirit Membu showed me."
Sharma paused. He turned, careful to make eye contact with each quadrant of the crowd, taking their energy in through every pore of his body. The concepts were the same ones that his mother had taught him, spiritual precepts handed down by the enlightened ones, twisted to make a trap for the unwary.
The monitors started the chant. The crowd joined in. "PEACE FINDS THOSE WHO SEEK IT. PEACE FINDS THOSE WHO SEEK IT. PEACE FINDS THOSE WHO SEEK IT."
Sharma completed the rotation hands out, palms up, just like the religious pictures he'd seen in books.
"Yes, brothers and sisters, you speak the truth. And with that in mind I offer communion with the spirit of the great Membu. My monitors will pass among you. As they do so, please take one of the holy berries given to me by the spirit Membu, and place it on your tongue. Hold it there for a moment, praising the miracle by which this ancient fruit was brought down through the corridors of time, and bite down.
"Then, as peace floods through your body, seek oneness with those around you. Put contention, conflict, and crisis out of your mind. Focus instead on peace, harmony, and love. Become one with the ancient civilization that flourished on this planet a million year
s ago. Bless you my children, and spread the word, 'Peace finds those who seek it.' "The spotlight snapped out and Sharma disappeared.
Meanwhile, down among the crowd, Corvan struggled to make sense of what he'd seen and heard. What sort of scam was Sharma running anyway? The "peace finds those who seek it" stuff was aimed at getting people to accept their circumstances and overcome them. A concept so pure that even the executive council would endorse it. But why? Why would Sharma push something like that?
Unless the technician was exactly what he claimed to be, a messiah who had seen things in the desert and returned to spread the word. And why not? Which if any of the great religious leaders had been accepted in their own time?
Still, there was the matter of Membu and the holy berries. Membu was a figment of Sharma's imagination. But what about the berries? What were they anyway? Some sort of designer drug that Sharma had commissioned and was giving to the faithful? And why give them away if he could sell them? There were lots of questions and no apparent answers.
There was a stir off to Corvan's right. A monitor worked his or her way down the line. A tightly focused cone of light bobbed from face to face. Other monitors and other lights were visible off in the distance.
Corvan watched as the faithful extended their tongues, received a berry, and took the offering into their mouths. Shortly after that the berry-stained tongue would reappear, the monitor would nod approvingly, and move on to the next person in line.
The strategy was obvious. By checking to make sure that the berries were actually consumed the monitors prevented people from stockpiling or selling them.
A lot of things suddenly made sense. The content of Sharma's sermons combined with some sort of free drug had caused morale to improve. That's why people were wandering around Mars Prime being nice to each other. What a story! He could see the headlines now. "MARS MESSIAH BRINGS DRUG-BASED RELIGION TO OUTER SPACE!"
The reop checked to make sure that his implant was functioning smoothly and found that it was. The monitor was three, no, two people away, and the moment of truth was almost upon him. Should he take the offering? And expose himself to its effects? Or refuse and run the risk of unwanted attention? He wanted to ask Simmons what to do, but the monitor was so close that he or she would almost certainly hear.
The person on his left stuck out their tongue, took the offering, and pulled it into his or her mouth.
Corvan made up his mind. He would take the drug and hope for the best. The monitor appeared in front of him. Light hit the reop's eyes. He tried to see but couldn't. Corvan pushed his tongue out through the opening in the hood, waited for the berry to be placed on it, and pulled the offering into his mouth.
The reporter rolled the object around with his tongue, was unable to discern any flavor, and positioned it for a bite. The monitor was waiting, directing his or her helmet light right into his eyes, a presence that must be satisfied.
Corvan forced himself to bite down. The berry popped and sour liquid flooded his mouth. The reop forced himself to swallow the substance then stuck his tongue out. The monitor nodded and moved on.
The reporter tried to focus, tried to remain unaffected, but found that impossible to do as a series of powerful physiological reactions swept through his body.
The first one felt similar to a sexual orgasm but was centered in his brain rather than his genitals. Then came a feeling of contentment followed by a desire to please those around him.
"Aha!" a distant part of his mind said. "There it is, the missing component, the reinforcement that makes people want to do what Sharma says. That, plus the desire to experience the same pleasure all over again."
Corvan heard the voice but didn't give it much attention, since the tremendous upwelling of warmth left little room for anything else.
It took another five or ten minutes to provide the rest of the faithful with their communion. And it was then, as they basked in drug's afterglow, that Sharma spoke to them on channel fifteen. Because his voice came in through their helmets, it seemed more personal somehow, like a friend whispering in their ears.
"You have worshipped in the palace of peace. You have heard Membu's wisdom. You have partaken of the great communion. Go now and spread the word. Treat others as you would have them treat you. Show them the way. Peace finds those who seek it."
The crowd needed no prompting. They roared the reply, and much to his chagrin, Corvan did likewise.
"PEACE FINDS THOSE WHO SEEK IT! PEACE FINDS THOSE WHO SEEK IT! PEACE FINDS THOSE WHO SEEK IT!"
And then, as the last words died away, the torches went out. A light came on above the main lock, the faithful were ordered to seal their suits, and the monitors transformed the circle into a line.
It was done smoothly and with a minimum of effort, a fact that the distant part of Corvan's mind couldn't help but admire. Admire and fear, for as the crowd moved forward, he was happy to shuffle along behind.
Corvan was tired, strung out, and still coming down. The return trip had been little more than a blissed-out blur. Simmons had been looped, and the reop had been forced to carry him part of the way home, an activity that had left him even more exhausted.
Kim had been asleep by the time the reop reached the com center, so he had parked the suit and forced himself to visit Scheeler.
It was well past midnight by the time he reached her office. The lights were on and the security chief was there. Not only that, but she was in the final stages of getting dressed, as if going out somewhere. A blue coverall hid the dynamite legs and the rest of her as well. She gave him a glance then turned her attention to her boots.
"You look like hell. How did you get here so fast anyway? I sent the E-mail message one, maybe two minutes ago."
Corvan's mind felt slow and unresponsive. He tried to speed it up.
"Message? You sent for me? I didn't know."
Scheeler completed the closures on one boot and started on the other. "That explains it then. So, what brings you out at this late hour?"
Corvan dropped into a chair uninvited. "I just got back from a meeting out in the wastelands. They use drugs during communion, seem bent on forming a new religion, and operate in secret. I thought you'd want to know."
If the reop was expecting excitement, alarm, or surprise he was sorely disappointed. Scheeler did little more than straighten up, sit on the corner of her spotless desk, and raise an eyebrow.
"Thanks. You didn't happen to bring me one of those berries, did you?"
Corvan looked at her in open amazement. "You know about the berries?"
Scheeler shook her head as if disappointed in him somehow. "Of course I know about the berries, and Sharma, and the fact that he has bug-equipped microbots crawling all over the place. They're persistent little devils. We sweep the office for them three times a day."
"But why? Why allow the whole tiling to continue?"
"And why not?" Scheeler replied equably. "Sharma has found a way to provide Mars Prime with something it badly needs. Entertainment. As long as he sticks to his knitting and doesn't get out of hand, we'll let him run for awhile."
“What about the drugs?''
Scheeler nodded her agreement. "I am concerned about those. That's why I asked if you'd smuggled some out. My agents tried but failed."
"Any idea where the berries come from?"
Scheeler shrugged. "One of the clandestine labs probably. We trash one a week but others spring up to replace them."
"I tried one. It had the feel and texture of real fruit."
Scheeler nodded. "So I hear. My people have searched hydroponics so many times they know the plants by their Latin names. Nothing so far."
"Father Simmons doesn't approve of Sharma's do-it-yourself religion."
"No," Scheeler agreed, "I'm sure he doesn't."
"Genuine concern or professional jealousy?"
"How 'bout both?"
Corvan gave it some thought. "Yeah, that about covers it, I guess." "Good."
"Can I run t
he story?"
Scheeler laughed. "When we shut him down. Not before."
Corvan scowled. '' Thanks for nothing.''
"You're welcome. Don't fret though ... I have an even bigger story waiting for you in the science section."
"Really? What's that?"
The security chief shook her head. "Put the questions on hold. I want your unbiased opinion, and I won't be able to get it if I brief you first. Let's take a look."
Corvan made no move to rise.
Scheeler looked back, saw that he hadn't moved, and paused by the door. "Come on Corvan—trust me.
"That's what Father Simmons said when he led me out into the desert."
Scheeler grinned. "Okay, suit yourself. I'll have Hobarth handle the story."
Corvan pushed himself up and out of the chair. "You play dirty."
"Yeah," Scheeler said agreeably. "That's what they tell me."
It didn't take long to reach the science section, since it was just down the hall. Corvan knew the story involved some sort of crime long before they actually arrived at the scene. Police carts jammed the passageway. Lights flashed on and off. Snatches of radio traffic could be heard. People milled around. A robo sniffer got underfoot, caused a rather corpulent sergeant to trip, and was booted down-corridor. It squeaked and scampered up a wall.
"Take it easy," Scheeler said mildly. "I can replace you with someone else, but equipment comes all the way from Earth."
The sergeant turned beet-red, gabbled something incomprehensible, and faded into the crowd.
The crowd seemed to melt away revealing a sign that read, "Dr. Albert Wu," a closed door, and an armed guard. She was heavy, wore her hair up in a topknot, and used lots of makeup. Corvan recognized her as the same woman who had released him from his cell aboard the Outward Bound. She ignored him and focused her attention on Scheeler.
"Glad you're here, Chief. This is a strange case."
Scheeler nodded and motioned towards Corvan. "This is Rex Corvan."
The guard acknowledged Corvan for the first time. "We’ve met."
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