Gabriel's Stand (28 page)

On that same morning, elsewhere in New York, Bishop Allan Gardiner looked up from the pile of work on his desk.

“Directorate Member K is here to see you, Father.”

Why do so many of these “former” terrorists still persist in using their initials?
The Bishop's administrative assistant was standing, poised in the doorway to the Diocese's offices. “Should I see her now?” Gardiner asked.

“It was Tan, herself, who asked for the appointment,” the assistant offered.

“Perhaps we hold out for Ms. Berker, then?” Allan Gardiner smiled; then he shook his head. “Just kidding, Jerry. Offer our guest tea or something, then escort her in; say in five minutes, if you would.”

Bishop Allan never wore vestments or even his collar in the secular offices. High, windowless, adobe faced walls surrounded a plain wooden desk and three straight backed wooden chairs. As the coordinator for the Human Conspiracy, he maintained more security precautions than the Vatican itself, except, of course, for official visitors from the Directorate whose exemption from personal searches was non-negotiable. He swept the sensitive papers on his desktop into their drawer. This left an old fashioned laptop sitting next to four stacks of papers, each held down by a different pewter paperweight. Allan discreetly pulled a cloth over the computer
. You can't be too careful with these people.

Three of his four paperweights were in the likeness of an ape. Gracefully fashioned in fine detail, a mountain gorilla, sat on the largest stack of papers, cradling a cross in its hands, its great head cocked at an odd angle; a chimpanzee held a cross over its head like a weapon, grinning fiercely. A cross rose from the third stack of papers, several monkeys climbing over it and hanging from it. On the fourth stack of papers, the likeness of a two people, a woman and a man, sat in office chairs intently staring at their empty hands.
Episcopate humor
, he thought.

The purpose of the appointment had not been announced, a discourtesy typical of the Directorate. But Allan Gardiner knew the topic: a certain priest. The church had endured interference from secular authorities before; this afternoon's meeting should be interesting at the very least. At the rap on the door, Bishop Gardiner got out of his chair and opened the door himself.

K was an almost pretty woman in her early thirties, but somehow feral, with a shaved head, fierce eyes, and disconcertingly yellow teeth. Unlike the contract assassins employed by the Directorate, K was better trained in ideology than killing. But her training in the latter art was sufficient for any face-to-face encounter with an elderly, unarmed cleric.

Gardiner, a lanky, but fit, man in his late seventies, looked directly into her face. He studied her eyes.
Anybody home?
he thought.

“Please come in,” Allan said, guiding the woman to a seat in front of the desk. “You must tell Director Tan that we pray for her.” Gardiner shook the woman's hand; then he slipped into the seat next to hers in front of his desk. He would face her directly at an uncomfortably close range.

“Why would you pray for Tan?” K asked.

Allan shrugged to himself.
Another hard case.
“Perhaps we should get to the point of your visit.”

K shifted in her seat, uncomfortable with her proximity to Gardiner. “Well then,” she began, “the Directorate insists that you stop the activities of one of your priests, the woman named Hawke.”

“She is a provisionally ordained deacon, not a priest. Is Ms. Hawke in custody again?”

“Frankly, we're not sure at the moment. She makes bail so frequently.”

“Yes, we read the media accounts here, too. Your point?”

“You must recognize that her actions pose a danger to public order by undermining the Technology Licensing Commission's agenda for a greater America.”

Allan Gardiner rose from his chair and paused thoughtfully, before resuming his regular seat behind his desk. “Would you like some tea or coffee?”

“I was offered some already.”

“Well,” Allan said, taking his seat. “Can you tell me what your Directorate expects me to actually
do
about this one woman of the cloth?”

“Tan requests that you order her back to her parish…or whatever you call it. Just get her out of the field. She must stop these propaganda activities.”

“There is no parish and no church for her…and she does not report to me. Reverend Hawke was ordained as a deacon by an independent Native American group several years ago. She receives no compensation from the Church at all. Just how does Tan suggest that I control her activities?” Bishop Allan tried to suppress a smile.

“You will do nothing about this priest?”

“My, how that word resonates. Are you a student of history, young woman?” She shrugged. “Have you heard of Archbishop Thomas Becket? Not? Am I boring you? You seem so frustrated.”

“You are not answering my question.”

“May I be frank? What you ask is pretty silly.” A ghost of a smile crossed Gardiner's lined face.

“Silly?” K spat out the word. “The Gaia Directorate is asking you,
directing you
, to stop this … cleric.”

“You really don't get it, do you?”

“Stop this chatter and answer my question!”

“I am not hearing allegations that this woman has renounced her faith, just that you don't like her politics.”

“I think I am hearing that you won't help.”

“Let me put it this way. Helen Hawke was blessed, endowed with the freedom to do the Lord's work, and she has taken up the challenge on her own.”

“ANSWER ME!”

“I believe I just did. Let me be plain. The discipline of Helen Hawke by this Church for her activities is neither institutionally nor legally possible. You might as well petition the Governor of Idaho or the mayor of Santa Fe.”

K sat in sullen silence. “I don't have to listen to this. How dare you! You represent a dying cult built by dead patriarchs. We are a new religion dedicated to the living earth.”

“You came to me. I have explained why we cannot grant your request. You insult a major world religion, while your little fringe group is a throwback to pagan times. You are earth-goddess worshippers who have profaned humanity. You may have gotten political power, but that —”

“Must you insult—”

“No. I should probably thank you. We all live in a new reality. All traditional religious faiths are undergoing a revival, thanks to you. You are driving people back into the fold. Evil does that. So, I suppose we should be grateful.”

“You will fail.”

“I doubt that. This ‘dying cult built by dead patriarchs' has her warts. Yes, the Mother Church may be old. Yes, she may be excessively backward at times. But we have always valued people over things, children over animals. We believe that the discoveries and bounties of science and technology are gifts. Gifts from the Creator. These gifts have not been received without price because of human error and folly, but that price has been paid. Whatever humanity's failings, we do not regard hunger and disease as goals to be achieved but as evils to be eliminated.”

K had reddened shade by shade until she got to her feet and reached into the small bag she had brought with her. “I've heard enough!” she shouted. “We have asked you to stop this woman's activities. We know you can. Her slander will not be allowed. I will ask you one last time: are you refusing the Director's order?”

The Bishop shook his head sadly. “I am sorry that your Director exaggerates the influence of a single person. If the Gaia movement feels threatened at this moment, at the very pinnacle of its power, the danger comes from its own weaknesses. Helen Hawke has, but does not need, my blessings. God will follow and guard her. I will add you to my prayers. Good day.”

K pulled a handgun out of the case, and leveled it at Bishop Allan Gardiner. He stared back without flinching. She pulled the trigger three times. Each silenced round entered his chest, making a neat grouping. Blood spattered on the wall behind him as he slumped back in his chair.

“To Gaia, then, old fool.” K replaced the weapon in her hand case and slipped quietly out of the office.

A concealed camera and microphone had recorded the conversation and murder. In an few days they would reach a private server owned by Dr. John Owen.

Over the span of its previously shadowed existence, the Directorate had met in a number of secret places. Now it blatantly met wherever it chose. For this occasion, one historical monument from the early days of New York City had been selected. It had been a traditional church for generations; the building and grounds were located within sight of the ancient Empire State Building. Now the Commission leased the entire property to the G-O-D for $1 a year. Supposedly, all Christian symbolism had been effaced, leaving only the outer shell of the now deconsecrated sanctuary to suggest its earlier function.

Meeting here
, Snowfeather thought,
was intended to be their puerile little show of force.
They should have built a teepee
, she thought maliciously.

Who is that awful woman standing on the steps?

Louise had not weathered her ascent to power gracefully. Now so sallow that anemia seemed indicated, she stood in the doorway to the former sanctuary. Her head was shaved shiny bald. In her robes, which were a fungal gray color, she was a strange caricature of a medieval monk.

“Snowfeather, dear,” Tan said with forced friendliness, “so good of you to come.” Turning, she led Snowfeather into the former chapel.

Inside, the walls had been stripped, ceiling to bottom. There was no floor at all, just an expanse of scummy soil and twisting, tangled plants. Insect sounds filled the dank air. Immense dark green leaves, gray vines, thick black stems, swollen purple branches, entwined and twisting like snakes—these things and more grew everywhere, filling every available niche. The sensation of closeness and decay was overwhelming. Flickering yellow incandescent lamps were scattered in this cool, fetid jungle; and water dripped from the moldy ceiling. Snowfeather tripped over a root, and quickly regained her balance. Her heart was hammering.

The Directorate's members were still seven in number, but K's seat was empty for the moment. They were arranged in tree stump seats, making a semi-circle around a single empty rusted metal chair set—no doubt purposefully—slightly lower than the stumps. Without speaking, Tan had quickly taken the first stump. The other five members—Snowfeather ticked off their given names in her mind—were also dressed in robes in that appalling fungus shade. Every head was shaved, and their eyes cold and lifeless.

How
could I ever have been part of this?

Tan spoke first. “We though this location would be more comfortable for you, Snowfeather.”

“More comfortable? Than what?” she snorted.

“Please sit down.”

“No, but thank you. I'll think I'll stand for the moment.”

“Sit!” the giant woman next to Tan hissed.

“Louise, your sarcasm is a good fit. It goes with your Sister's rudeness,” Snowfeather said.

“My apologies,” Tan said.

“For what? Your sarcasm or her rudeness?” Then Snowfeather sat down on the rusty chair and smiled. “So what can I do for you?”

Berker didn't immediately answer. In the silence, Snowfeather stared at the huge woman sitting next to her. “Cynthia? My God, is that you?” Snowfeather asked. Cynthia had changed so much she was almost unrecognizable. She was an inflated, red-faced woman with close set eyes and a sour expression. It was as though the self-importance she had acquired as a Sister had set off a malevolent growth hormone. Cynthia eventually nodded.

“Well,” Tan continued, “I would like an explanation. We are all…puzzled by your behavior.”

“I'm sorry you are confused. What can I do to enlighten you?”

“You left the movement at the height of your success.”

“That can happen.”

“Now you assume the dress and speech of an ancient man cult.”

Snowfeather laughed. “You don't like my wardrobe?”

“A cult,” Tan continued, “that worships a deluded, long dead male, a cult that remains blind to the Earth Goddess Imperative, and to the criminal predations of humankind.”

“I see that conversion would be a challenge in your case,” Snowfeather said lightly. “Louise, in my tradition, there is only the Great Spirit, not this Gaia invention. But am I wasting my time with you? I think so.”

“You have defamed Gaia,” Tan hissed.

“Defame? Telling the simple truth is no defamation.”

Tan continued, adopting the stentorian tone of a criminal clerk reading charges: “You have defamed the Commission.”

“Same defense,” Snowfeather said. “Truth.”

“You have defamed our Directorate,” Tan said.

“Attacked,” Snowfeather said amiably. “Defamed means I was wrong. Which I was not.” Then Snowfeather stood, choosing the spot directly in front of Tan, who was still seated. She leaned down staring directly into Berker's face. “Your parents named you Louise Berker.” Snowfeather's voice was calm, reasonable. “They loved you, Louise.” Tan's face went blank.

Snowfeather turned to Gloris. “Cynthia Thomas, have you completely forgotten your humanity? Jane Sing,” Snowfeather said, turning slightly, “Holly Burton, Dianne Alonoi, Susan Sanchez.” She paused. “Weren't you all born of mothers, fathers?” Five angry faces sought to retain their composure while Berker looked on with cool amusement. “What? You sprung up out of the loam? Come on, girls. Have you truly given up on the human race that produced your families?”

“Humanity is a pathogen,” Tan finally said. Her tone was matter-of-fact.

“So you would
poison
humanity?”

“Gaia does that work for us, Snowfeather,” Tan said calmly.

“But you, you…attack our goals!” The words came from Gloris. “You challenge Gaia Herself!” She was shouting so loud that Snowfeather was momentarily speechless.

Tan stood, looking at her. “No need to raise your voice, Gloris. Discussion is pointless.” She faced Snowfeather. “One last warning: Stop these public appearances.” Tan paused, momentarily overcome with her own fury. “You must stop your obscene attacks.”

Snowfeather began shouting back. “Obscenity! You want to see a real obscenity! Why don't you come with me to St. John's Children's hospital? Why don't you see your precious handiwork first hand? Why don't you get off your damn toadstools!?”

“Disease is Gaia's Kiss. She claims her own,” Gloris hissed.

Snowfeather paused to swallow. Thunderstruck, she stared at the Directorate for what felt like a full minute. The sounds of water dripping, human breathing and distant traffic accompanied her chilling realization.
This conversation is hopeless,
she thought.
I'll be lucky to walk out of here alive.
She looked at each Sister in turn. The ceiling dripped, insects buzzed. “So you found the final solution, the perfect cure, haven't you? The modern version of smallpox infected blankets, this time for the white eyes, and for everyone else.” All six faces were now smiling. They resembled a pack of feral cats eyeing their prey. Snowfeather turned away from the Sisters, too angry to look at them any longer.

She went quickly for the door, but immediately stumbled on a root. Swallowing a curse, she glanced down; then stopped, momentarily held in place by her revulsion: The old cross from the original altar lay wrapped in a network of fine gray roots. Partly buried in putrescent soil, it was barely recognizable, blanketed with tiny, glistening slugs.

Snowfeather glanced back over her shoulder. The members were all seated, staring ahead. “You are all monsters!” she called out. Seething with anger, she climbed the steps to the door. “Thank you for reminding me of that.”

As the door closed behind Snowfeather, Tan spoke softly. “And you, my dear turncoat, are far too dangerous.”

After a moment, Gloris stood. “We must stop her. Let K kill her.”

“No. K has just killed that Bishop,” Tan said. “Even now, public opinion must still be considered. But I want Snowfeather followed…everywhere. Her time will come.”