Judgment Day (6 page)

It was a long walk, but finally they emerged into a clearing on the far side of the hill. As they spread out along the crest of the hill, Christy realized they were looking toward the launch facility. There were few lights to be seen, but the congregation stared into the dark expectantly. Then Mark Shepherd stepped in front, wearing his headset, speaking into the microphone. Lights appeared in the distance, spreading around the launch compound until there was a bright glow and structures at the launch site could be clearly distinguished. As her eyes adjusted she could see the circle of light that was the landing pad. Excited murmuring spread through the crowd. Next, Shepherd led them in a thank you prayer and a prayer for the safe return of the
Rising Savior
and the "faithful servants piloting it." The crowd murmured with nervous excitement when the prayer was done.

Minutes passed, Shepherd speaking frequently into his microphone. The children became restless, making up games and chasing each other around. The congregation scanned the skies in all directions, as did Christy. Then Shepherd shouted to be heard.

"Look to the west."

Everyone turned. Christy saw nothing, then someone pointed. A dot of light appeared high above them, almost directly above. The light grew brighter, then split into two lights. The two spheres of the dumbbell-shaped
Rising Savior
were lit. The craft dropped toward them until it was clearly visible, the crowd cheered and praised God as the craft floated over the valley in front of them, hovering where they could easily see it. The air crackled as the ship passed. Then the
Rising Savior
banked and rolled completely over and sped off toward the landing site. The crowd cheered until it was safely in the circle of light, then the valley went dark. With a last cheer and another prayer, the service ended.

Christy lagged behind the congregation, letting them enjoy their achievement. She feared there would be fewer joys ahead, doubting the world was ready for a religious cult to be a space power.

CHAPTER 7 REPORT

The dialectical process seems woven into the fabric of the universe. Light and dark, yin and yang, good and evil, male and female, prosecutor and defender, Republican and Democrat. For every force that emerges, an equally powerful force emerges to counter it. This is undoubtedly a healthy process, since we all know the consequences when a natural or political force operates unopposed.

—
A HISTORY OF GOOD AND EVIL
,

ROBERT WINSTON, PH.D.

S
imon Ash's slight frame couldn't fill the oversized mahogany chair, his feet barely reaching the ground. Like everything else in the office, it matched Manuel Crow's desk, a red mahogany so deep it was almost black, and contrasted sharply with the brilliant red of the carpet. Crow liked things big and dark, and big and dark intimidated Simon.

The door opened and Manuel Crow entered wearing a black floor-length robe trimmed in scarlet. An unused hood hung over his shoulders. Crow was wiping his hands on a towel, his black eyes sparkling, a slight smile—a cold smile that made Simon shiver. Crow tossed the towel onto the desk. It was stained with blood.

"Good evening, sir," Simon began.

"I wasn't expecting you."

Crow ignored Simon as he hung his robe in a closet and settled behind his desk.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I thought it was important," Simon said, adjusting his bow tie. "Have you heard the news?"

"I've been occupied."

Crow reclined in his high-backed executive chair.

"Get to it, Ash."

"Yes, sir. I took Reverend Maitland to help me get access to that cult I told you about. The one that sent out the announcements—the Light in the Darkness Fellowship."

Crow nodded noncommittally while he rocked gently in his chair.

"I thought they were a saucer cult so I took Reverend Maitland along since she has a way of getting close to those fundamentalist types. Anyway, I didn't think they could do it, but they did."

Simon paused breathless, heart pounding, voice quavering, terrified of Crow's response.

"Did what?" Crow asked calmly.

"Huh?" Simon said, confused.

"You said you never thought they could do it, but they did. Did what?"

"Oh. They launched a spaceship."

Crow stopped rocking, his black eyes staring curiously at Simon.

"A religious cult successfully launched a rocket?"

"It wasn't a rocket. It was a . . . I don't know what it was. It looked like two diving bells hooked together. Here, I have a picture."

Simon slid the page from the information packet across to Crow who waited until Simon was seated again before he used a single slender finger to slide the page in front of him.

"You say this thing was launched? But there was no rocket?"

"It went straight up into the air and just disappeared."

"A balloon."

"No, sir. Those flying balls were steel."

Now Crow looked incredulous, but instead of the anger Simon expected, he smiled. Leaning back in the chair he put his feet up on the desk. There was blood on the tip of his shoe. Simon waited nervously, playing with his bow tie.

"Mr. Ash, you are to find out everything there is to know about this cult. I want to know who the leaders are, who the members are, and where they get their money. Most of all I want to know how this spaceship of theirs works. And, Mr. Ash, I want to know it right now. Do you understand?"

"I'll get right on it." Simon stood to leave, then turned back, shifting nervously from foot to foot.

"Mr. Crow, I've already expended much of my budget for the year."

"You have an unlimited budget until further notice."

"Thank you, sir. We'll stop them, sir."

"You can be sure of that, Mr. Ash," Crow rumbled in his deep voice.

Simon left Crow deep in thought, the blood on his shoe browning as it dried.

CHAPTER 8 NEWSROOM

Social concerns function much like fads. Hoolahoops, pet rocks, and bell-bottom pants have come and gone much like our concerns about drugs, the homeless, the missile gap and AIDs. The one common denominator is that preceding each of these concerns was extensive media attention. As if with one mind the media select a cause, then shape the nation's perspective.

—
A SOCIAL HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES
, SONJA BURGER

R
oland Symes barely had time to drop his package on his desk before Janine snaked her arm around his waist and pulled him through the crowded newsroom. It was nearly midnight but the newsroom was crowded, most clumped around TVs watching cable broadcasts. They all looked enviously at Roland, knowing he had firsthand knowledge.

"Goldwyn's in one of his moods," Janine confided.

Janine Sampson was a metro reporter, covering local news and San Francisco government. She was young, twenty-seven, with short-cropped brown hair and enough ambition for three people.

"He knows you were at that cult's ranch when they launched," Janine said. "You didn't call it in, so you better have a good explanation."

Goldwyn was owner and editor of the
Journal
and congenitally angry. Roland was one of the few who wasn't intimidated by Goldwyn. Syndicated nationally, the paper needed him more than he needed it.

Goldwyn was waiting in the conference room, sitting at the middle of the table, the back of his bald head against the glass wall. Goldwyn always kept his back to the newsroom. He claimed he didn't like reporters reading his lips, but with his volume they seldom had to. Goldwyn wore a blue suit, white shirt, and red tie. The tie alone cost two hundred dollars. Roland was in his usual jeans and cotton shirt. Goldwyn disapproved of the way he dressed, but as long as Roland's columns were syndicated, he wouldn't make an issue of it. The rest of the reporters wore ties or the female equivalent.

Roland entered the conference room, sitting opposite Goldwyn. Goldwyn held an unlit cigar in his teeth. The section editors were all there, as were a half-dozen reporters. Janine leaned against the window behind Roland, blocking part of the San Francisco skyline.

"Well?" Goldwyn demanded.

"What do you want first? The cult? The spaceship? The satellite?"

"The spaceship."

"From the outside it looked too simple to fly. You couldn't call it aerodynamic: just two spheres connected by a latticework of pipe. The satellite sat in the middle. There was a retractable cowling that covered the satellite before the launch. The spheres were entered through hatches in the top. There was one pilot in each sphere. They both wore space suits. That might suggest the spheres can't provide a breathable atmosphere."

"You can pack a breathing system on your back," Harry Chin interrupted from Roland's left. Chin covered science and technology for the paper and was resident expert on technological matters.

Goldwyn silenced him with a finger point and then nodded to Roland.

"The ship lifted off from the trailer they pulled it out on. They parked it in the middle of a concrete launching pad. There wasn't any blast—no flame, no exhaust of any kind. It started with a high-pitched whine and then there was a bright light—very bright. The air was charged with static electricity. Then the ship just floated up. It paused twice, hovering in place, and then it lifted up and out of sight." Roland paused, thinking back over the launch. "That's about it. They did pass out an information packet."

Roland pulled the packet from his pocket and handed it to Russ Jackson, the assistant editor. Jackson was African-American, six feet tall, and completely gray. He had worked for Goldwyn for thirty years, accumulating more abuse than the rest of the newsroom combined. Jackson looked at each page briefly, then set it picture side up in front of Goldwyn. Goldwyn glanced at it briefly.

"Tell me about the satellite."

"It had solar panels, gold foil to protect sensitive parts, a broadcast and receiving dish—and some gizmos I couldn't identify. Everything about it said it was the real thing. They said it would broadcast a message. The frequency is in that information. By the way I picked up a receiver at Radio Shack. I charged it to the paper."

Goldwyn didn't flinch.

"So far all I've picked up is Bible verses."

"Tell me about the cult," GoldwTyn said.

"They call themselves the Light in the Darkness Fellowship. No one seems to know how many members there are—maybe a few thousand. They took over the town of Exeter a few years back and renamed it Christ's Home—we should have file copy on that. They couldn't buy that much property without a lot of members, or someone with really deep pockets backing them. I'm guessing they've got a network of believers sending tens and twenties."

Goldwyn took the cigar from his mouth and pointed it at Jackson, assigning him the task of investigating the finances of the cult. Then he replaced the cigar and turned back to Roland—his signal to continue.

"The cult owns most of the businesses in town and most of the property. The original residents who stayed behind after the cult took over seem fairly content. Of course they can't buy liquor in the town and there are no bars, but the crime rate fell through the floor."

"They set up a police state, did they?" Russ Jackson asked.

"Not that I could see. They just don't commit crimes."

"If they have teenagers, there will be crime," Jackson argued.

"Not in Christ's Home. One man I talked with told me of an incident from two years ago. A couple of teenage boys set fire to a haystack. The town had a meeting to decide on punishment The community decided the boys would work for the farmer until he was satisfied. After they paid off their debt the farmer ended up hiring one of the boys."

"It sounds like the 1950s," Janine said.

"Stepford town," Jackson said.

"The 1950s weren't like the 1950s," Goldwyn said. "They tell a good story, but just wait until we dig a little deeper."

Again Goldwyn pointed with his cigar and a reporter acknowledged his assignment with a nod.

"Something's not right about this," Goldwyn said. "No cult can build a satellite."

"No cult could put it into orbit either," Roland said. "I called contacts at NASA and Hughes, but they claim they had nothing to do with the satellite. They don't believe the cult did it either, they think it's some kind of hoax."

"Maybe the Russians sold it to them, they're short of cash," Jackson suggested.

"Did the Russians sell them the launch vehicle too?" Roland asked.

"Is that all?" Goldwyn asked.

"I have orbital information," Roland said. "It's in a synchronous orbit, just north of the equator. Depending on the power of the satellite it could broadcast to most of North and South America."

"That's all you have? That's no more work than an hour on the phone. Where have you been for the last six?"

"Working on the Proctor connection."

"George Proctor the gun nut?" Goldwyn asked.

"That's why I was there in the first place. A source put me onto him."

"Is he part of the cult?" Goldwyn asked.

"No one admits to it. In fact, most of the members of the Fellowship seem to have pacifist leanings, normally not Proctor's type."

Goldwyn took his cigar from his mouth and pointed it at Roland.

"Proctor's not the story here, the emergence of a fundamentalist cult as a space power is," Goldwyn said, his voice loud enough to carry through the glass into the newsroom. "Drop the Proctor thing." Then turning to Russ Jackson, "See what you can do with this picture. I want that spaceship on the front page of the sunrise edition. OK, we're done here."

Then he pulled a lighter from his pocket and lit the cigar, signaling the formal end of the meeting. He puffed on the cigar waiting for the others to leave, pointing at Roland so he would stay behind.

"Give me an eyewitness account for the front page."

"How do you want me to play it? Amazing feat? It's the equivalent of someone cracking the law of gravity in a garage."

"True enough, but play the other side. The danger! A group of religious fanatics have a monopoly on the biggest technological breakthrough of the century."

Goldwyn stubbed out the cigar, signaling he was leaving. He never smoked anywhere but in the conference room and only after meetings. Pausing at the door he said, "I used to worry that the Muslims would get the bomb. I've got a sick feeling this is worse."