Jovah's Angel (55 page)

“And did they leave Terra too because of war and hatred and self-destruction?”

“Well, war and self-destruction were certainly part of life on Terra, but the original space explorers were motivated more by a desire for knowledge than a need to escape the home planet. Historically, once a race becomes completely at ease with its own environment, it seeks to conquer or at least explore unfamiliar ones—whether those are new continents or new worlds.”

She thought of the Edori, setting off any day now on a chancy, ill-equipped voyage. “That's the only reason they leave? To explore?”

“Oh, no. If a continent, or a world, has become too crowded to sustain all the life forms extant, some members of the species will go off in search of more land, more room to grow. Many colonists are seeking religious freedom and a chance to live life on their own terms. Some, like your own, seek to escape intolerable conditions. But no exploration is possible without adequate technology.”

“So the settlers left Eleison looking for a place they could design to suit them,” she said. “Why did they choose Samaria?”

“Because it was compatible with their life form. It had the right oxygen mix and a soil base they were comfortable with and a specific gravity that was similar to the one on Eleison. Its only real drawback was the violent weather, but once I was modified to create shifts in the air masses, upon request, that was easily controlled.”

“And once the angels were created to communicate with you,” she added softly.

“Yes, that, too. I can hear the angels most clearly when they are aloft, but in fact my satellite receptors are sensitive enough
to pick up the general prayers of ground-based citizens as well.”

“So. The angels. How were they created?”

“Biological alterations. One of the scientists on board, Dr. Hoyt Freecastle, had been an expert in artificial limbs and tissue regeneration back on Eleison, and he had long been interested in the theory of creating a human being that could fly under its own power. Once the colonists realized how essential it would be to communicate with the ship on a regular basis, they allowed Dr. Freecastle to experiment on a few volunteers to see if he could graft wings to their backs. When the operation was successful, he created a whole host of angels and, indeed, altered their genetic makeup so the wings would be passed on biologically to future generations.”

“I wonder if they knew,” she said, more to herself than to the ship, “what would happen next. That we would forget how the angels came about. That we would forget how we came to Samaria. That we would forget… everything. Even who Jehovah was.”

“Oh, they knew,” the ship replied, startling her somewhat. She had not been expecting an answer. “At least, they theorized. As you know, the colonists deliberately withheld technology from future generations. They cut almost every direct link with me, and they destroyed what few technological marvels they had brought with them planetside. They sought a simpler, more primitive, perhaps more innocent lifestyle for themselves and their children. But more than one sociologist in the group speculated that ritualistic observance of such events as the Gloria, and the creation of superior beings you call angels, would lead to a theistic belief in the existence of an all-powerful being. In effect, a personalized god.”

“And that's what they wanted?”

“No. They had their own religion, of course, which had nothing to do with spaceships, and most of them believed that this was the religion that would persist after colonization. In fact, it died out within two generations.”

Alleya felt her interest sharply revive. “And what was their religion? Was it the true one?”

“The true one?” Jehovah repeated. “I do not understand.”

She made another impatient gesture. “My whole life, I have believed that Jovah is a god, a supreme being that watched over me and heard my prayers. And now I learn that Jovah is a machine, built by men, a thing, a—a computer. But I cannot erase
from my heart the belief that somewhere there
is
a god who watches over me, who hears my prayers, who knows my name. Perhaps the colonists knew who he was. Perhaps he is the one who sent them safely from Eleison to Samaria.”

“Perhaps, but even on Eleison there was more than one religion, and fealty to more than one god. Those you call the Edori, who believe in a nameless god who oversees the universe, have a religion that is relatively close to the basic tenets of the faith the Christers brought with them from Eleison. But that is not to say their religion is the true one. And throughout the universe, from planet to planet, there exists such a diversity of divinity that to set one aside and call it the true religion is a task no sage or philosopher has been wise enough to achieve.”

Alleya felt herself sag against one of the pristine white consoles. “But then—no one knows who the god is, and if there is one? Everywhere—in the whole universe—there are people who
believe
they worship the correct god, but have no proof—people who may not even know that their god is false, or one of many?”

“That is correct,” Jovah said.

“But that is—that is disastrous!” she cried. “I thought you would know—I thought you would be able to tell me—who the god was we had forgotten and how we could reach him after so many centuries of neglect. But if there is no god, or no god that anyone can identify—then what holds the world together? What binds the stars and the suns, what turns the seasons, what gives any of us the will to live?”

“These are questions that, over the millennia, have concerned a great number of men and women,” the ship replied. “People with far more education than you in far more advanced societies have despaired when uttering those same queries. And like you, they believed there was an answer somewhere—that there was a god, whose wisdom knew no boundary and whose strength could not be measured. They believed he was an infinite being and their own abilities were finite, and so they could never know him, or define him, or limit him.

“If it comforts you,” he continued, while Alleya listened intently, “in every society, on every planet, whether humanoid or alien, some form of religion exists. Some members of every sentient species believe that there is a divine being, who, as you say, guards them and listens to them and knows their names. They have different names for these gods—and some of them have more than one god, and some have gods who are cruel and some
have gods who are benign. But they believe their fates are not entirely in their own hands, and they believe their souls do not go wandering undefended after they die.”

“It comforts me. A little,” she said slowly. “But perhaps they have been as deluded as we have. Perhaps there were forces directing them that were just as bizarre and inexplicable as—as a spaceship so complex they would not be able to comprehend it if they saw it. Perhaps they just
wanted
to believe that someone cared for them, and believing made it so. Perhaps they have all created their own gods.”

“Indeed, you will find essayists and scientists on every planet who make exactly those same arguments. One of them has said that religion is the soothing opiate of the common people. Another has said that god is an advanced form of desire. Men have always, through the centuries, found ways to create what they did not find in the natural order. And men have always, through the centuries, sought to put themselves in the context of the universe. The universe has remained too vast for them to quantify. Thus they hypothesize an entity even more vast as a vessel to contain it. Men are, in the final analysis, agoraphobic. They want a roof and a fence and a definable boundary. Otherwise, they are too afraid of what lurks outside.”

Much of what he said made no sense to Alleya; she wasn't sure if that was because he used too many unfamiliar words from that foreign language or if her brain just refused to accept too many new concepts at once. But one statement she clung to, as if it were the only truth in a sea of lies: Everywhere in the universe, men and women believed in a god. It was not the same god, or at least, not a god in the same contours; he bent to amazing molds, took on radically different identities. But from planet to planet, star to star, he extended; and his fingers touched every believer's heart.

“I wish I knew more,” she said aloud. “I wish I knew all the names the god went by, and all the ways he was worshiped.”

“I have all that information, if you wish me to download it,” Jovah said. “It is all in the Eleison tongue, but you have mastered that, have you not?”

“You mean, the language the oracles use to speak with you? Oh, yes.”

“In fact, you can call up the files from the interface on Sinai, if you wish. It is more material than you could read in a lifetime, but I can guide you to the texts you might find most interesting.”

She felt a spurt of gratitude toward him, much akin to the warm glow of fellowship she had used to feel toward Jovah, back when he listened to her voice alone, back when she had thought he was a god. It would be hard to remember that this voice belonged to a machine, that every act she had considered divine had been programmed into a computer by human hands. And yet, perhaps it would not be wrong to consider this electronic brain, in some sense, a friend. He had in many ways befriended her over the years—as she had befriended him.

“Tell me,” she demanded. “Why is it you could hear my voice and no other before Caleb repaired your circuit board?”

“The pitch was specific and singular, and could still be read by my receptors,” was the immediate answer. Which, again, made no sense. And was not what she had wanted to hear.

She smiled a little sadly. “Oh. I thought it was because I had some special place in your heart.”

“I am not constructed with emotions such as humans have. I do not have what you would consider a ‘heart.' I thought you understood that.”

She sighed. “I understood. It was a stupid question.”

“But you are, if it makes you feel more appreciated, unique. At least, your voice is unique. It resonates at a particular level that I have not seen replicated, and I have heard every singer on Samaria for the past six hundred and fifty years.”

“Yes, that does make me feel better,” she said, smiling more brightly. “Although I would not have expected it to.”

“Every Kiss has a unique electronic pattern as well,” he continued. “Which is how I am able to track and identify everyone who has been, as you call it, dedicated. But that is a different thing entirely from voice identification.”

“And do you really cause Kisses to flare when true lovers meet for the first time?”

“In a manner of speaking. I am usually able to calculate, almost from birth, which offspring bear gene clusters that I think would be valuably combined with another person's gene clusters. For instance, your friend Caleb Augustus inherited remarkable abilities from the first genetic combination of angels—”

“Nathaniel and Magdalena,” she supplied.

“Yes. And it was inevitable that, several generations later, a man with a predisposition to scientific discovery would be created from that gene pool. It could have been the generation before or the next generation. These things are not exact.”

“And you thought that would be valuable? To facilitate the birth of a man who was a natural engineer?”

“It seemed likely that some of my mechanical functions would begin to fail sometime in this century, and I thought it would be beneficial if someone on Samaria had been bred to correct those problems.”

“Do you always—breed people like that? With a specific goal in mind?”

“Not always. Sometimes.”

“For what goals?”

“They vary.”

“But is there—some kind of overall plan? For the development of the entire race on Samaria?”

“Nothing so grandiose. Sometimes I want to pair men and women of obvious intelligence merely to ensure that some genius is still produced in this world. Other times I seek to strengthen failing bloodlines or eradicate inherent diseases. But men and women are too unpredictable and contrary to mate and reproduce according to some great scheme of mine. They do what they will. Now and then I urge them along.”

“So if—for instance—the Archangel did not marry the man or woman you selected, what would be the consequences?”

“Merely, offspring that were not as vital and gifted as they might otherwise have been.”

“But you would not—again, for instance—display your wrath by sending down thunderbolts if the wrong angelico sang at the Gloria?”

“Is that what the angels believe?”

“Oh, yes. It is what motivated Gabriel to search all over Samaria to find Rachel, a hundred and fifty years ago.”

“I did not realize the dictum carried such weight, although I believe your world is better served if angels heed my words. In any case, only one Archangel has not sought and followed my advice about who to marry.”

“Delilah,” Alleya guessed.

“Precisely.”

“And she sang with Levi at her side, and the world did not end, so his voice must have pleased you,” she added. “And her voice must have pleased you as well, if you selected her.”

“I expected a difficult decade or so, for I knew my circuits were burning,” he said. “I believed Delilah had the strength of will to shepherd fractious contingents through a great trial. I still
believe I was right, though she had physical disabilities that eventually rendered her unfit for the position.”

“Would you know,” Alleya asked, “if she suddenly regained the ability to fly?”

“Is that likely?” he returned.

“It's possible,” she amended.

“If she takes wing again, yes, I will know. I will be able to judge by the variances in the pressure on her Kiss.”

“Watch for it, then,” Alleya said. “It may occur.”

There was a moment of silence while Alleya brooded over all the things the computer had told her in a few short minutes. Almost too much to take in; and yet, in some strange, unforeseen way, deeply exciting. In a few sentences, her world had expanded to the size of a universe, densely populated and unimaginably diverse.