Phase Shift (21 page)

"You are one of us now, Reyes," Goren told
him, almost soothingly, "a member of the Inner Clerisy Circle. You
are bound to keep the information covert. You may tell no one."

"Good day, Goren," Reyes said upon leaving
the room. Inner Circle, indeed. What Goren and his Cleric Council
were doing was tantamount to welcoming Cataclysm. Reyes was not
prepared to stand idly by while a self-selected group of prefects
doomed the rest of the population.

The maglev truncates at the Prefecture
boundary and Sam switches to battery. No sooner have we left the
gated Prefecture than the greenery thins to almost nothing, the
road changes from pavement to gravel and then to dirt, and then the
battery dies, placing us within two clicks of our destination, give
or take. If the Prefecture resembled a compact university town, the
area encompassing the Prefecture, which Sam calls the 'Inf Sector',
resembles a post-industrial-revolution-era town, one in which the
evils of coal power have only just begun to dissipate. Whereas the
buildings within the boundaries of the Prefecture have a freshly
modern aura, the buildings within the Inf Sector are a mix of
Victorian and Georgian architecture, fraught with red brick, slate
roofing and wrought iron.

The Inf Sector, Sam explains, refers to the
cities whose responsibility it is to supply the manpower for
keeping the infrastructure of the surrounding prefectures going.
The workers are paid in Units which are used to barter for
necessities and can be traded in at double value for education
vouchers. Most people subscribe to cottage industries for goods and
services, though few who aspire to anything but local recognition
are successful. The exception is the company that produces the
maglev propulsion systems popular in most prefectures, as well as
the companies which design and implement the backbone for the civ
technology.

A half-hour's walk through a burgeoning
metropolis later and we approach a wrought-iron enclosed,
cut-stone, darkened cathedral. I half expect bats circling in and
about the steepled bell-tower.

"Welcome to Sanctuary," Sam says.

"What is this place, Sam?" I ask, feeling
the apprehension of a dozen B-movie queens as they're led down the
garden path to the haunted house in front of which their car has
just broken down and from which there will be no sane egress.

"You'll see," is his ominous response. I
don't like it. Sam's entire exposition on the way over reeked of
'need to know', like while he was telling me the truth, it wasn't
the whole truth. I wait for him to open the front gate, but instead
he says, "Over here," and leads me to a small pub across the
street.

"I thought we were going to Sanctuary," I
say.

"We are," he says. "This way."

We enter the pub and I follow him past the
bar, alive with the sound of a recorder playing a jig, and into the
back storage room. Sam moves a pile of wooden crates to reveal a
door. He pushes the door open to reveal a narrow cavern with stairs
leading down. I am the first to descend the narrow staircase. The
muffled echo of the sounds Sam makes as he tries to hide the
entrance waft gracefully behind me. The way down is slow going.
It's dark and I have to feel for each stair before I step, finding
purchase in the uneven wall in lieu of a rail. Two steps after I
touch bottom, Sam bumps into me, apologizes, and takes the lead.
Ten paces later we begin an ascent and I realize we have just
traversed a hidden passage under the street and into Sanctuary.

"Why the cloak and dagger act?" I ask.

"I do not understand."

"The underground tunnel? Why not just use
the front gate?"

"There are many such entrances to Sanctuary.
The underground passages run for kilometres beneath the Inf Sector.
The tunnel system has never been mapped. This is by design. The
posit is if one entryway is compromised, there are many others
which remain concealed.

"In our world, it is a tolerated evil to be
Relen. To believe in something other than that which is written in
the Canon is heretic. We are indulged in the Inf Sector, but
barely. Even so, to be identified as Relen is to be forsaken. If I
am to survive prefect candidacy, no one must know."

"I don't understand," I say. "No other
beliefs besides those of the Prefecture are tolerated?"

Sam nods once, curtly. "Knowledge is truth;
understanding divine," he says with sarcasm over his shoulder. The
door at the top of the stairs opens into what looks like a
confessional booth. Sam allows me to enter first. I have to squint
against the light on the other side.

Sanctuary, I realize, has its parallels to
places of organized worship on Earth: the cut-stone walls, vaulted
ceilings, chapel with rowed pews and an altar at its head. Stained
glass artistry detailing scenes depicting a cadre of Gods and
prophets loans some colour to the otherwise lacklustre room. Sam
leads me toward the front of the building and into a large, marbled
foyer.

Hurried footsteps echo from deep within the
Main Chapel indicating we are not alone. They grow louder as they
approach. We peek around the paneled, gothic wooden door of the
Main Chapel to see a small, grey woman nearing us. She wears a
white tunic, reminiscent of those of the prefects, but adorned with
chunky pomegranate brocade at the neck, sleeves, and hemline. She
stops about a metre from where Sam and I stand, and checks me out.
I feel her eyes judging the length of my hair, the drop of my
neckline, the cut of my suit, and the height of my pumps. The look
she wears on her face, the pursed frown, wrinkled nose, and slit
eyes, the almost imperceptible cluck of her tongue, tells me she
doesn't approve of my presence.

"Samkin Tailor," she says. Her voice is deep
and raspy. It echoes from within the far reaches of the chapel
behind her.

"Trozai Prefect," Sam replies. He reaches
forward and grasps Trozai's right shoulder with his left hand.
Trozai latches on to Sam's outstretched arm at the elbow with her
left hand.

They hold this position for a second, a
brief, secret handshake, which Trozai is the first to fracture.
They stare at each other, hands at their sides for another second
and then Trozai says, "A word." She withdraws into the chapel,
taking it on faith Sam will follow.

Sam watches Trozai make her way toward the
altar at the front of the chapel. "A moment, please," he says,
touching my shoulder as if attempting to initiate another secret
handshake. He follows Trozai midway into the chapel before he turns
and they confer.

Trozai sounds angry, but she maintains a
poker face so it's hard to say for sure. It's also hard to make out
what they're saying, given their distance and the persistent echo.
Seeing as further eavesdropping would be fruitless, I spend my time
examining Sanctuary's foyer.

The walls are adorned with a series of
ornate gilt frames, each filled with a large portrait painted in
sepia palette, marked with sunless greens, crepuscular blues, and
sanguine reds. The portraits form a timeline of Relen fellowship.
The wall marks Martal Bakersson as the founder of the movement. He
appears to have been in his fifties when the portrait was
commissioned.

“Martal Bakersson toiled himself to build
Sanctuary nearly a half-century ago.” Somehow, Sam managed to sneak
up behind me. No mean feat considering the lousy acoustics. “Some
say he used the same bake ovens to fire these bricks as to bake his
bread.” Samkin caresses the red brick wall beside Bakersson’s
portrait.

"I should go," I tell him. "I'm sure I've
overstayed my welcome."

"Trozai will give you audience now."

"Really, Sam, I should go."

"Samkin Tailor," Trozai calls from within
the chapel.

"We must go her. Now," he says, and ushers
me into the chapel.

Trozai Prefect sits in a pew toward the
middle of the Main Chapel. When we near her, she stands and nods
before addressing me. "I am Trozai Prefect, First Prefect of the
Boron Prefecture."

"My name is Molly McBride. I'm a professor
of Archaeology at the University of Toronto."

Trozai looks as me as though confused. "It's
like being a prefect."

She nods and smiles briefly to show she
understands. "Samkin Tailor tells me you bear The Mark."

I give Sam a sideways glance to try to gauge
his take on the situation. He appears eager to hear what will
transpire. "What mark?" I say, and then I ask Sam what all this is
about.

"Every Relen bears The Mark, a small,
crescent shape, somewhere on their bodies." He unbuttons his tunic
to reveal a small, half-moon, reminiscent more of a scar than a
birth mark, just above his sternum. Trozai follows suit. She pulls
on the collar of her tunic to reveal a similar scar on her neck,
close to the jugular.

"I assure you, I have no such mark anywhere
on my body," I tell them.

"Are you certain?" Sam asks.

"I think I'd know," I say.

"I do not understand," Sam says. He wrings
his hands together. "I can feel you are one of us. Even now. Very
clearly."

"What's this about, Sam?" I ask, a mix of
plea and demand. "I thought you brought me here to learn about the
Relens."

"And so you shall," Trozai begins, taking up
the conversation when it appears Sam will not. "Relens are
different from mainstream Gaians in that the pitch of their phase
diverges slightly from the rest of society."

"Though not enough to prevent us from
staying grounded," Sam adds finding his voice. "Every Relen emits
this altered frequency, undetectable by anyone other than another
Relen."

"To celebrate that we are Relen is our
birthright, one which would be denied us by the rest of society,"
says Trozai.

"But if you ask us, it's more than our
birthright," Sam says. "It is our destiny."

"Why are Relens shunned by the rest of
society?" I ask.

"Gaian society is built on the foundation of
knowledge, and philosophy, science and literature," Trozai tells
me. "The Relens believe in a higher power, one who directs all that
happens in the heavens and on the earth. That we inherit The Mark
of The One, True Leader from birth is proof enough He exists.

"It is the duty of every Relen to strive for
the truth behind His origin." Trozai described the Relen
organization as similar to Freemasonry on Earth, a secret
brotherhood devoted to perpetuating the metaphysical belief in a
single, Supreme Being.

"I approached you at the Antiquary because I
detected the difference in your phase pitch frequency," Sam admits.
"I had been following you to determine if I might trust you. Once I
questioned you and learned you were a student of Man, that you
studied culture and religion, I knew I could approach you in
confidence."

"I don't know what to tell you," I say,
sitting on the bench nearest to me.

"She must bear The Mark," Sam insists to
Trozai. "We have laid ourselves bare before you," he addresses me,
sounding frustrated. "Why do you resist your destiny?"

The whole situation is starting to get a
little weird for me. I mean, here I am, stranded in the middle of
God only knows where with a couple of strangers who insist I'm like
their long lost child or something. I'm not a religious person.
While I'd like to believe in a—quote-unquote—Higher Power, I find
it hard to reconcile His existence within the realm of scientific
knowledge. If The Bible is to be taken as the one, true gospel,
where do the disciplines of Paleontology, Paleoanthropology and
Geology fit in? And while my mind struggles with the theories that
ensure a weave of Biblical and Scientific theory can yield a tidy
mesh, there are times I wonder if those theories aren't a dying
religion's way of trying to jam a square peg into a round hole. The
bottom line is what Sam and Trozai have just explained to me—a
religion based on congenital body markings, a feeling of affinity
when in close proximity to each other, a devotion to finding the
meaning of life, the purpose for one's being—sounds like as good a
foundation as any for worship. More power to them.

What concerns me more, though, is what drew
Sam to me in the first place. A sense I was somehow different? That
the pitch of my phase resonance was slightly off kilter? I look
from Trozai to Sam, wondering if I should break my cover. Up until
now, I've been able to wander throughout the Prefecture as can any
other Gaian. But Sam made me. He knew. Sam had brought me here, had
trusted me with information which might endanger the entire Relen
movement if I betrayed their confidence. I think I can trust
him.

I slowly unbutton my jacket and remove it to
reveal the modulator strapped around my right bicep.

Trozai gulps air through parted lips. Sam
doesn't seem to make the connection with my reveal at first. He
stares at it for a moment and then looks up at me when realization
takes hold.

"Is that...?" Trozai asks.

I nod.

"But it is in violation of The Pact. You
cannot...Your presence here..."

"I am in contact with a prefect who believes
there is no longer any integrity in The Pact. Hasn't been in at
least a quarter century."

The room is silent save for the heavy
breathing of the Prefect and her disciple. The silence lingers for
so long I start to wonder if I wasn't out of line suggesting to a
devout Gaian that her most sacred document isn't quite as sacred as
she might think, but then Trozai says, "How came you by this
device?"

"A prefect friend gave it to me. He brought
me here because he thinks I can help your planet."

"Help our planet?" Trozai asks.

"The random shifts in phase. He believes the
phenomenon will occur on a planetary scale in the near future."

"Cataclysm," Sam says.