Blake's eyes flicked again over the apartment. It was too clean, too impersonal! Either no one lived here, or it was a trap. He began edging toward the rear door again. "No. No, thank you. Where is the robbie you wanted fixed?"
The old man smiled and sat down. "Don't be alarmed, Senor Mason. You are quite safe. Is Senorita Volas coming up the front or the back?"
Blake's tenseness drained out of him. They either already had him, or he was safe. "The back." He gestured around him. "Who lives here?"
"No one. Or I should say, no one permanently. It is merely a convenience address for our organization."
"The People for a New Day?"
The old man smiled and nodded. "Among others. Are you certain you would not like a drink? We have some passable Rugan Vifion from Napa and a rather good juntamente vino from the Brothers."
Blake shook his head. He was listening for sounds in the condo, and for the sounds of Rio at the rear door. He still stood, and was still not completely satisfied.
The old man seemed to sense this, and said, "Please, Senor Mason, you are quite safe here. Please, not to worry." He smiled again. "Perhaps it would put you at ease to know who I am." He held up his hand. "Oh, I am Emello Radiodifundir, all right, even though my papers say I am Paul Mendoza. You might know me better as Urban IX, the bishop of Rome."
Blake stared, disbelieving this little brown man in the rather shabby tunic and ill-fitting trousers.
The man smiled wryly. "Ah, yes, I know. The robes, the miter, the jewels, the incense, the acolytes – I know." He sighed deeply. "I never knew them. I have seen pictures, of course, and a few relics and some lovely crucifixes people have hidden. But all that was before my time."
"But you are supposed to be in New America or somewhere down south," Blake said.
The little man nodded, his bald head gleaming. He smiled with a sort of childish glee as he said, "Yes, yes, good! It is good you think so. Perhaps they shall, too. The outlaw pope." He looked up at the ceiling. "It has a certain romantic air, does it not?" He looked with quick concern at Blake. "Not an anti-pope, you understand. Bless me, no! The Church has had enough of those, dear me, yes. Even one Urban, who was not my idea of a good prelate, I'm afraid – not an anti-pope, that Prignani, a rather savage little man, but then I suppose they were all a bit that way in the fourteenth century. Ah, but I digress. My apologies, my son."
The little man's spout of words had given Blake a few seconds to think. An outlawed pope ... A revolutionary underground ... Escaped time travelers? He had to smile, and was still smiling when he opened the rear door to Rio's knock.
"It's all right," he said, giving her the code word he and she had agreed upon. "Come, I want you to meet a pope."
The little Spaniard was both gallant and regal as he met Rio. Blake saw her accept him at face value, and that settled it for him. Once again they were given a change of clothing, this time a figure-concealing dress and cloak for Rio and a severely cut drab suit for Blake. They changed clothes, then sat down to eat some food.
Urban talked as they ate. "I am but one link in your underground route. Next, you will go to Venus." He smiled at their expressions. "No, Venus the organization. They will guide you to the New Day people."
"It sounds as if there are many dissident groups," Rio said.
"There are a few, yes," Urban said, nodding. "But they are not very effective. They have their own internecine battles. The People for a New Day are political. We Catholics are, of course, religious. Venus is ... um, rather pagan in its beliefs. The Lutherans are different still, and the Mormons were always independent. But those two groups appear to conform."
The old man shook his head. "Mankind was never one, but it has rarely been so militantly fractionalized. Each group develops its own plans, ignores the others. Each is too weak to do anything itself, so nothing gets done,"
The thin pope leaned forward to emphasize his words. "This is why you are so important. The timing of your arrival was superb! The New Day people finally had three plans approved by the majority of factions – which is the first step. But no one has agreed on the date, nor on what to do afterward. Everyone is afraid we will lose what gains we make in the in-fighting after it is over."
"Why do they need me, or us?" Blake asked.
Pope Urban leaned back. "Let me give you an idea of what we have done. First, the religious oppression is such that no one is happy with it, not even many of the churches. They maintain armies and do what they must do because they are afraid of being overrun by other religions."
"Holy wars..." Rio said.
Urban nodded. "Worse. Civil wars are always the most vicious. But this fractionalizing among the religions – if you can call some of them that ... forgive the chauvinism, my dear – has broken down communications between countries, between the people in the middle, between philosophies. But the plans the New Day people have made seem feasible. The best plan was given a 64.2 percent chance of succeeding, given certain factors. You are one of those factors, and a major one."
"How can one or two people make any difference?" Rio asked.
The prelate smiled. "Psychological. A sign from a more liberal time. A neutral factor, not aligned with any of the dissident groups – one they can all rally around. Let me tell you about revolutions."
The old man poured himself a glass of wine and sat back. "Revolutions succeed when, and only when, governments have become rotten or soft, or have disappeared or abdicated their duties, or are just too distant to enforce the laws and/or are too busy doing something else. Revolutions succeed in power vaccuums. How?" He held up his hand, a finger in the air. "One, revolution depends upon organization and communication. We are organized into cells, with each of us knowing only one above and one in the organization below. We communicate mainly through the Total Information System net, on sealed circuits. We have enough people in the TIS to be reasonably sure we will not be tapped."
He held up another finger. "Two, there are always betrayals. Three, it is easier to get people to hate than to love, and the whole oppressive church system is helping us there. Four, revolutions are won by a few who have been trained for it. Five, revolutions are not won by the masses. They only provide the foundation, an atmosphere in which to work. If the masses are not basically on your side, they must at least not be on the side of the opposition. Six, revolutions succeed only when they take place at the proper moment. Too soon, too late, and they don't work. We have decided that now is the time. If we do it right, there will be a minimum of bloodshed. If we do it wrong..."
The old man shrugged.
"But," he continued, raising his hand, "I think this is the time. Lurid, programmed events like the Arena slaughters can only entertain the people for so long. Likewise, the television dramas, the staged miracles, the pageantry, all the propaganda slop the people have been getting, telling them no one ever had it so good..." His lined face was grim. "These ... 'churches' have ruled unwisely. They proscribed too much, limited life too much, though those at the top live a different life entirely. You haven't been here long enough, or traveled enough, to hear the grumbling, the frustration. The people are rebellious and ready. Ready for a leader."
He paused, then went on. "Remember," he said, "revolutions never work in the midst of happiness. They start as conspiracies of dissidents, then build to a ground swell, but succeed only if properly managed. You must use only those elements that are necessary, and no others. For example, we never accept anyone as a member just because he wants to join up. That would be the grossest breach of security."
Blake grinned. "But you take people who don't even want to join."
"Speak for yourself," Rio said. "I want to join."
"I'm not yet convinced it is going to work," Blake said. "Bomb-throwing anarchists, outlaw popes, reckless hedonists, gladiators, time travelers–"
"We have done our homework," Urban insisted. "For instance, despite the fact that there are so many different churches and that they fight, they do align the
mselves in groups. These groups are serviced by master computers, which we have people ready to sabotage or to control. Centrality increases vulnerability, but decentralization and parallel, fail-safe systems cost money – so brother-churches share computer systems. No modem complex system can get along these days without some kind of computer facility. People are basically lazy, and they tend to let machines do more and more of the drudge work. As a result, most of the logistics, bookkeeping, simple storehousing, and a hundred other things are done by computers. Sometimes only the master computermen can read the programs correctly. Forty-eight percent of those computermen are our people."
"Your Holiness," Rio said, "when does a revolution have the right to succeed?"
"When its philosophies and goals truly reflect the majority opinion. And when it has the guns," he added with a grin. "But we have developed alternate plans and organizations you need not know about."
"The less we know, the less we can tell," Blake said.
"There is always that chance of capture, yes," Urban said. "Speaking of that..." He dug into his tunic and took out some papers. He sighed, then smiled at them. "Now, on your way! Here are your identification documents. You are Noble and Dyami Youngblood, of the Sparrowhawks ... the Crows, that is. Indians. You are on your way to fetch a dead chief and bring him back to the tribal burying grounds. Take the seven-o'clock shuttle to Los Angeles, to the Palmdale Airport. Call the number on this slip of paper. Identify yourselves as Metatron – he is the 'chancellor of heaven' – and as Batna." He smiled at Rio. "One of the names of Lilith, my dear. I hope you don't mind."
Rio shook her head and smiled faintly. Urban concluded, telling them they would then get further instructions.
"Will we see you again?" Rio asked softly.
Urban shrugged. "Only God knows, my child."
Blake spoke. "May I ask you a question?"
Urban smiled at Rio and said, "I have never understood why people say that, do you? I usually say 'No,' but they ask anyway. Go on, Senor Mason, ask your question."
"You are a Christian, all these weird churches and cults or whatever they are say they are Christian. Yet you are hiding? Why is that?"
The little wiry Spaniard nodded. "Yes, I know. But why did the Church punish deviations? Why condemn any form of worship of God? It is a mystery, indeed. How easy it would be to say that God works in mysterious ways. I've always thought that idea was a deterrent to rational and logical thinking; you can say that, perhaps, when your meager efforts have failed. But you should try and not give up too soon, yes? Now, in answer to your question: I would say that I do not know. There were political reasons, ethnic reasons, geographic reasons, reasons that were said to be temporary and others that were said to be necessary, but I have never really understood why. We all worship God, whether we call him the Great Spirit, Supreme Being, Brahma, First Cause, the Infinite, Allah, Yahweh, Jehovah – or you make up a name. The Holy Roman Church believes that its path is the true path, but perhaps all paths lead to Him." The old man smiled softly. "Perhaps His ways are mysterious."
He pursed his lips, then said, "I have lived a sheltered life until a few years ago. I am learning ... It is good not to be isolated from the people – no leader should be. So I am learning. I learned that greed is a powerful motivation, and that men saw power and wealth in religion and organized it with computer research and motivational analysis, finding out the fears of men and playing upon them. That is nothing new, but they brought it quickly to a fine art, playing on the reactions to ... to your licentious time."
"It was a free time, though," Blake argued.
"Perhaps too free."
Blake felt a sudden anger. "You can't be too free."
The aged pontiff nodded. "Perhaps ... you are right. Perhaps I should have said your age required more self-discipline. Would you agree?"
"That's different. With that I would agree."
"Come on," Rio said. "I don't care to argue theology now. We've got to move."
"Go with God!" said the Holy Father.
"And with haste," Rio added.
"Thank you," Blake said, and the little brown man made the Sign of the Cross in the air.
Rio and Blake walked out the front door and went quickly toward the drop elevators.
"He seemed so alone," Rio said.
"I never thought I'd meet a pope."
Chapter 25
Blake slipped his stolen change-card into the slot on the pay pictophone in the echoing mall of the huge Palmdale Airport. He looked at the number on the paper and punched it out.
The screen cleared almost at once, revealing a pretty woman in a plain blue dress. Behind her was a veneer wall with a large commercial logo. "Proteinettes, good afternoon!"
Blake didn't know what to do. It seemed unlikely his contact was a switchboard operator or a receptionist. Perhaps he had mispunched. "Is this two thirteen, four sixty-five, sixty-six forty-four, fifty-six ninety?"
"Yes, it is, sir. How may we help you?"
"Well, I'm Mr. Metatron and–"
"Ah, yes, sir! Is your wife with you?"
"Yes, uh ... Batna is here."
"Very good, sir. Would you please take the monorail to St. Timothy's Gate, Casmaran. You will be met by a representative of this office."
Blake repeated the destination and the connection was broken. He looked at Rio. They both shrugged and started walking.
"Do you feel like a pawn?" she asked.
"All too often," he said.
The monorails rose like silver spaghetti from the airport terminal, and branched out in every direction toward arcologs. Overhead, swift aircars moved on invisible wires in steady streams. Rio saw a moon shuttle coming down and pointed it out to Blake, but he was too busy looking over the other passengers and trying to decide if any of them were tails.
The monorail skimmed over the mountains, past small arcologs and then bigger and bigger ones, as they neared Los Angeles. None of them was familiar to Blake or to Rio, although they thought one of the smaller arks might be Mojave and another was perhaps the old Sahara. They stared out of the windows at the passengers at every stop and even at the advertisements on the wallscreens at each station.
About a third of the ads were for soya foods and algae products. Rugged, handsome men in rough-weather gear were manning improbable algae boats and urging that you buy Seawheat or Oceanein or Protein-A. Handsome, chaste-looking women suggested you use Sayan or Soyasea, and there were tridees of beautiful, healthy children smiling as they emptied bowls of Proteinums. Another third were religious-oriented, offering the addresses of main temples, advisory services, heresy teams, rehabilitation centers, seminaries, hospitals, and the like. The final third were advertisements for Circus bills, Arena trainers, personal medicines, new and used transportation sellers, arcolog rentals, and a few television shows.
Casmaran was a large ark on the eastern edge of what Blake figured was the San Fernando Valley. As they stood waiting for the representative, they read a large sign that said Casmaran was the name for "summer" and that the different main levels were Tubiel, Gargatel, Gaviel, and Tariel. It was built and operated by the Potent Lord Construction and Realty Corporation, which also operated Talvi, Ardarcel, and Farlas, the other three "seasons."
Bored with waiting, Blake and Rio discussed their probable futures and Blake thought of asking Rio where Voss and the others were.
"I don't know," she said. "I heard a rumor that someone was trying to buy me out, but I never knew who it was. It could have been anyone who, you know, saw me in a parade and..."
Blake nodded. "He's somewhere. Do you think he made it to Switzerland?"
Rio shrugged. "I don't know. Oh, Blake, this world is so different from what I expected, from what Jean-Michel expected! Why did we come here?"
"In pursuit of immortality," he said wryly. "Maybe in two or three hundred years it will change and we'll still have two hundred or so to live in peace."
She looked at him sadly. "I'm sorry you ca
me, Blake. I've condemned you to – to this."
"No, I'm a volunteer. Besides, if I hadn't come, I would have been dead decades ago! I'm alive and well and living in the future."
"Some future!"
"Mr. Metatron?" The voice was at their elbow and soft.
Chapter 26
Blake stood in the window with his arm around Rio and looked out at the megalopolis of Los Angeles. It was even larger than when Blake lived on the other side of the Hollywood Hills. It seemed to be just one enormous building now, and even the spaces between the arcologs were filled thirty or forty stories deep at their shallowest. The arks were bigger than any of those of his time, and Blake counted several times the number that he remembered.
They had stopped at a transfer terrace on the escalator trip up the outer facet of Casmaran, and Rio had marveled at the horizon-to-horizon supercity. "It's bigger than San Francisco," she said.
"It always was," Maya Higgins said, unimpressed. "It's a monument to stupidity. Forty-one million miserable souls, and climbing daily."
"Forty-one million?" Blake asked.
"In Los Angeles?" Maya nodded, directing them to the next escalator.
"It's the second-largest city in the world now. Tokyo has forty-six point two, London has thirty-nine something, Shanghai has about forty. So do Moscow and Sao Paulo. Bombay, New Delhi, and Calcutta dropped, of course, since the famines. I think they were quite large in your time. Cairo, Rio, and Peking are catching up, though. But Los Angeles had such good a climate and all that desert to grow into!"
Blake thought about the hordes that now, he was told, bulged every ancient city site across the world, plus all the new cities, the floating arks, the underwater cities, and even the populous Arctic metropolises. Sixteen billion...
He held Rio closer and they watched-night overtake the huge city. Lights burned deep in the canyons and clefts long before the sun had left the faceted towers of the tall buildings. Unceasing streams of aircars wove intricate multilevel patterns in the air, hopping from the landing pads of one structure to another, dropping, rising, weaving, and never hitting each other.
To THE LAND OF THE ELECTRIC ANGEL: Hugo and Nebula Award Finalist Author (The Frontiers Saga) Page 23