Firebird

by Jack McDevitt

  “I’m not excited about going down there,” I said. I’d promised myself that I wouldn’t raise any more objections. In fact, it was part of the deal. But it slipped out.

  “I agree,” said Alex. “We’ll be careful.” It was delivered as a promise but one we both knew he wouldn’t be able to keep. It wasn’t hard to imagine Chris Robin saying much the same thing to Bill Winter.

  He was studying the displays. Belle was focusing on the churches. “When we get on the ground, I think it would be a good idea if you stay in the lander. No matter what.”

  Oh God. Here we go again. “Alex,” I said, “you know damned well that isn’t going to happen.”

  His face hardened. “Then you’ll wait in the ship.”

  “While you take the lander down?”

  “That’s what AIs are for. I don’t need a pilot.”

  “You will if there’s a problem. If a storm blows up, or you get hit by lightning, it’ll be all over, baby.”

  “There’s not much chance of that. We’ll go down in broad daylight under clear skies.”

  “Alex—”

  “Look, Chase. We’ve been all over this. Whatever else happens, we don’t want both of us disappearing into this godforsaken place.”

  The scopes had picked up a small country road, winding through open fields and patches of forest. An open-top car moved along at a leisurely pace. The seats were empty, but I could see a steering wheel turning gently.

  The entire world was haunted.

  Alex was standing behind me, watching the same image. “I’m sorry I got you into this, Chase.”

  “It’s not a problem. I’ll just wait in the lander while some local giant bat has you for dinner.”

  EIGHTEEN

  A valley that offers true solitude can provide an exhilarating experience for the soul. Just don’t go in there alone.

  —Marik Kloestner, Diaries, 1388

  If the number of churches, mosques, synagogues, and other places of worship visible along the streets and in the countryside signified anything, Villanueva had been, as advertised, a bastion of faith. The churches were of a multiplicity of types, from giant cathedrals anchored in the centers of large cities to small country chapels out on the plains. Sometimes the architecture was ornate, in the old Gothic style that has characterized Christianity almost since its inception eleven thousand years ago; sometimes it was eclectic; sometimes it was unaffected and modest.

  We spent the first two days taking pictures and hoping to find something through the scopes that would, somehow, imply a connection with Chris Robin. That approach produced nothing. If there was something down there, we were not likely to see it because the sheer number of churches was overwhelming. We knew there’d be tens of thousands of them, of course, but that wasn’t quite the same as actually seeing them.

  We had no idea how to categorize what we were looking at. Big churches, little churches, isolated churches, churches with cemeteries, churches with angels out front. What possible connection could there be with Winter’s list of sightings?

  “Maybe it started here,” said Alex. “Maybe this was where the first sighting occurred. Maybe someone knew what caused it.”

  “But how could something like that be connected with a church?”

  “Not a church, Chase. The churches. Lisle used the plural.”

  “Which means what?”

  “That it’s not a record. At least not in the sense of a formal document. It’s something else.”

  “All right. I have another question.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Assume you’re right. Say it’s some sort of historical place. Maybe the church members got together and set up some memorials. Or something . How would Robin and Winter have known to come here?”

  “I doubt Robin was here previously. And we can be reasonably sure that Winter was never here. That means they saw something in the history of the place.”

  “Whatever it might have been, I didn’t see it.”

  “We may not have recognized it if we did. That’s what’s so frustrating, Chase. I’ve been hunting through everything I can find on Villanueva and its churches. There has to be something. It’s probably best for us to stop theorizing and just keep our eyes open.”

  Eventually, Alex picked out a small church standing on the edge of a town in a prairie. There were no trees, the vegetation was sparse, and the ground was, aside from some low hills in the east, absolutely flat. Which was why he’d selected it. We’d have good visibility all around, so nothing could come up on us unseen. There was, he admitted, no other reason. “Let’s just go down and look,” he said.

  We climbed into the lander and launched. On the way down, we got another warning from Highgate. You are directed to cease and desist. Reports are being filed. Legal action may be taken. If you survive. And finally, “You are on your own.”

  We rode down through pleasant, quiet skies, and descended into a field just east of the church, where we had a good view of the front doors. The grass was out of control, and there was a wooden fence that could have used some paint. Otherwise, the place appeared in remarkably good condition.

  Gravity and oxygen content were ideal. It was a beautiful day, early afternoon. I’d just shut off the engines when a movement caught my eye, and we both turned to watch a four-legged creature with a long snout and wrinkled skin scramble off into the grass.

  Alex released his harness and opened the door. Birds were making a lot of noise. “Okay,” he said. “Sit tight. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  I looked at the church and the green fields and listened to the wind. If I tried to get out with him, I knew that it would just provoke another argument. In the end he’d say no, no way, you’re going to keep your word, and he’d stand there refusing to move until I promised him again, for real this time, that I would do what I was told. There was no need to go through all that. So I stayed in my seat and asked him to be careful.

  He climbed out, dropped to the ground, checked to be sure he had the pulser he’d brought along. Then he started toward the church, walking through thick grass. When he got to the front, he paused, looked around, and climbed three wooden steps onto the deck.

  The church was constructed of white plastene boards. It had a few big stained-glass windows and two large, carved doors. There was no steeple, but a white cross had been mounted on the roof immediately above the front entrance. A dozen or so headstones occupied a small tract of land off to one side. They were worn down by the weather.

  A sign stood in front with several lines of unfamiliar symbols. It was leaning toward the skimmer and looked ready to collapse. I asked Gabe, the lander AI, if he could read it.

  “It’s Kabotai,” he said, over the link. “It was one of the terrestrial languages seven thousand years ago. Do you wish to know what it says?”

  “Yes, Gabe, if you will.”

  “One moment, please.”

  Alex paused in front of the doors and turned to survey the town. It consisted of about sixty buildings, most of which would have been private homes. A three-story structure rose over the rest, a public hall of some sort. The church faced out on a park. Again, the grass was unkempt, but the benches were in good shape, as well as an overhang that would have protected visitors from the sun. Behind the overhang was a small white building that had probably provided washrooms.

  “Chase,” said Gabe, “it says what time the Sunday service is. And also: ‘Enter here. A special friend awaits you inside.’ Friend is capitalized, suggesting it is a reference to the Deity.”

  It sent a chill through me.

  The sun was directly overhead. Except for the grass, and the fact that the only sound we could hear was the wind, the town looked occupied. It was as if we’d simply arrived when everyone was off visiting somewhere. I kept waiting for a door to open. For a dog to bark. Even Alex, who is usually pretty composed in tense situations, looked uneasy. “St. Monica’s,” I said, over the link.

  “Pardon?”


  “St. Monica’s. It should have a name.” I climbed out of the lander.

  He looked sternly at me. “Chase.”

  “I can’t just sit in there, Alex. Let’s try being reasonable.”

  “Okay. Do what you want. But don’t get yourself killed.” He reached for the doorknob. Turned it. Looked back at me. “Was that where you went to church?”

  “No. But Monica suggests congeniality. Warmth.”

  “This place could use some.”

  “Couldn’t we all?”

  He pulled on the door. Something clicked, and it opened. He slipped inside.

  I followed immediately behind. In the entryway, a light came on.

  The interior had a high ceiling. The sun shone lazily through a series of arched windows. They were narrow but reached from about knee-high well up into the overhead. They were brightly painted, with images of prophets, angels, and saints.

  Holy-water fonts stood just inside the doors, and I was shocked to discover they held water. Benches were arranged on either side of a central aisle, and an altar dominated the front, with a pulpit placed off to one side. Directly above us was a gallery for the choir. Statues of Jesus and Mary, of St. Joseph, an angel, and three or four figures with halos, were distributed around the interior. One of them, a young woman, had clasped her hands in prayer. “St. Monica,” I said.

  “Probably Mary Magdalene,” said Alex. “I’ve never seen anything like this. How can this place be thousands of years old?”

  “Regular maintenance does it every time.”

  The altar appeared to be white marble, but it was actually just plastene. A cloth was spread across it. Two candles and a large cup that might have been gold rested on it. Had the candles been lit, I think I’d have started seriously suspecting a divine presence.

  We walked up the aisle and stopped in front of the railing that separated the altar from the rest of the interior. “We’re probably the first people to come in here in thousands of years,” Alex said. “It’s a beautiful chalice.”

  “It is.”

  “I can’t help thinking that it would bring a decent price on the market.”

  I probably winced. “I was thinking the same thing.”

  “You don’t approve.”

  “No.”

  “Why not? I can’t see that anyone would be hurt.”

  “I think we should pass on this one.”

  “Why?”

  “Alex, let’s not lose our focus on why we came here.”

  “Your religious background is showing.”

  “I don’t really have much of a religious background. But it just doesn’t feel right.”

  “Okay,” he said. He turned away from it and walked toward the statue of Jesus. “You owe me one.”

  “Okay.”

  He touched the statue. “This is quite nice also.”

  “Alex, this is different from what we’re accustomed to. If this church were a ruin, and the statue was buried under a ton of debris, I’d have no qualms about taking it. But this—” I looked around at the benches, the stained-glass windows, the altar. “Colter and his crowd are always accusing you of looting. Take anything out of this place, and I think they’d have a valid argument.”

  “You’re becoming difficult to work with, Chase.”

  “Okay. Try this: It won’t fit in the lander.”

  I wasn’t feeding images back to Gabe. I’m not sure why. Gabe tends to ask a lot of questions, and I didn’t particularly want to be carrying on a conversation with him. But he was annoyed that he didn’t know what was going on. He informed me every few minutes that there was “no visible movement anywhere,” trying to lure me into a conversation.

  “What do you think, Chase?” he said. And, “Have you seen anything of interest?”

  “Negative, Gabe. I’ll let you know if we find anything.”

  “I’ve never understood about religion. Why do people think that a transcendent being would care about having people sit in pews and sing hymns to him?”

  “Later, Gabe,” I said.

  Eventually, we gave up and went back outside. Alex turned and gazed at the church. “Well,” he said, “I don’t guess that helped much.”

  And we got Gabe again: “Approaching aircraft.”

  “How far away?”

  “It’ll be here in about six minutes.”

  We hustled back to the lander, got in, and lifted off. The oncoming vehicle didn’t look like anything I’d seen before. It was the size and bulk of a small cargo transport. It had big wings and no antigrav technology. It was coming from the east. “Gabe,” I said, “go to two-four-zero, kick in at three-quarters, and let’s take her up.”

  The aircraft came out of a line of hills. It appeared to be tracking us. Our lander wasn’t particularly noted for its acceleration capabilities, so I held my breath as we swung around to the southwest and went to flank speed. The transport was closing quickly.

  “If that is the best it can do,” said Gabe, “we should have no problem.”

  It wasn’t, and for a few minutes it was touch and go. But gradually, we cut the rate by which they were closing, then we began to pull ahead.

  “Skies are clear everywhere else,” said Gabe. “We are running at six hundred twenty knots.”

  I turned to Alex. “We want to go back to Belle?”

  “Let’s find another church.”

  NINETEEN

  A church, by definition, should be a place where one may discuss the matters of the day with his Creator. Unfortunately, too often there are others present, with a different agenda.

  —Kory Tyler, Musings, 1312

  We continued west in the lander, across the prairie. Then we were out over a broad blue lake. Alex sat in the right-hand seat, looking out through the wraparound, while simultaneously studying what we had of the ecclesiastical history of Villanueva. It wasn’t much. Pictures of churches, monuments, spires, crosses, and chalices flickered across his display. Maps showed the locations of the Church of the Savior, and, near the coast, St. Agatha’s. The Salvage Chapel, celebrated at one time though no one any longer knew precisely why, stood at the entrance to Bryce Canyon, which we passed at sundown.

  Most of the structures depicted were either unidentified, or the identification had lost all meaning. Here was the Church of the Angels, located in a place whose name didn’t appear on the maps. And there was a picture of a woman in red vestments, presumably a cardinal, whose name was Carassa, but about whom no other fact was known.

  We went back to the Belle-Marie to recharge. It didn’t make much sense to use the lander when the ship, with its scopes, provided as good a view. But Alex said something about wanting to get as close as possible, to be in a position to pursue anything of interest without having to wait. Again, the impatience was out of character, and he didn’t seem inclined to offer a better explanation.

  The argument for doing the search from the ship gained momentum when we flew into turbulent weather, but we stayed with the lander. I was able to get above the storm, and we were gaining on the sun, now high in the sky, but it made little difference: We’d lost sight of the ground. “It doesn’t matter,” Alex said. “If what we’re looking for is really confined to a single church, we aren’t going to find it anyhow.”

  Later, under clear skies, we passed over a construction site. Silver bots, some on legs, some incorporated into vehicles, moved across the ground with polished fluidity, hauling equipment, erecting walls, striding along girders several stories off the ground. One, a giant mechanical spider, was climbing a wall.

  Not far from the construction site, we saw a church. There was nothing special about it. It looked like a hundred other churches we’d seen over the past few hours. A smaller building, probably a rectory, was attached. It dominated a neighborhood of attractive homes with wide lawns and picket fences. (The lawns were overgrown. The AIs apparently hadn’t been charged with looking after yard work, other than possibly clearing fallen branches.) “Let’s ta
ke a look at it,” said Alex.

  “Any particular reason?” I asked.

  “I like the angel.”

  The angel was a sculpture near the front doors. It was a female figure, its wings spread in full flight. It lent an air of majesty to the church.

  The church had an old-style Gothic design, and was maybe four stories high, with gray stone walls. A bell tower rose at one corner. A large cross, set at the peak of a sharply slanted roof, looked out across a modest avenue lined by trees. A car was passing.

  A large rectangular building, constructed in the same style, stood on the other side of the avenue. A church school, probably. Lettering was engraved across its entrance. Probably St. Mark’s or some such. Private homes, all apparently in good condition, surrounded the complex on three sides. Behind the church, and the homes, dense forest stretched to the horizon.

  A small feline creature sat placidly in front of the school. Large birds nested along the rooftops. And music was coming from somewhere. It had no discernible rhythm, just noise, instruments I didn’t recognize.

  We were still getting a lot of wind. Antigrav vehicles are notoriously vulnerable to high winds, so I was careful going down. “Behind the church,” said Alex, “where we’re not so visible.”

  There was open space between the church and the forest. A large granite cross rose from the overgrown soil. It was, I thought, a gravesite. But if there was a stone base with an inscription, it had long ago been buried.

  We settled into the thick grass. I opened the hatch, and we sat for a minute, listening to the wind and the buzz of insects, waiting to see if we’d attracted any attention. But nothing came rolling in our direction.