Sullivan Saga 2: Sullivan's Wrath (21 page)

Sullivan shook his head. “I don’t think so. I tried to talk to him, but I realized at the end that I couldn’t stop it from happening.”

“And now he’s like the entity that took Liz’s form?”

“That was what I was led to understand.”

“So he can visit us? He can appear to us?”

“I don’t know. After he—his body—died, I didn’t see either of them for the rest of the trip. I don’t know if the transformation was successful.”

Kate put her hand on Sullivan’s chest and felt his heart beating. “I think we’ll see him again, Rick.”

“I hope you’re right. I miss him more than I thought I would.”

“Me, too.”

“Tomorrow I’m going to arrange to have him cremated. I don’t know what to do with the ashes yet, but I’ll think of something.”

“As soon as it’s done, can we leave Edaline? Can we go to Faris?”

“Yes.” Sullivan reached over and stroked her cheek. “This is all over now, Kate. No more traveling, no more fighting, no more worrying about being arrested. We’ll settle down on Faris and live a very quiet, very boring life.”

Kate smiled. “That sound just about perfect.”

“So what have you been up to all this time?”

“Besides worrying about you? I had a little adventure of my own.” She told him about the attempts to assassinate her and General Miller. “I’ve also been reading quite a bit,” she said.

“What about?”

“Before we left Silvanus, I took some books from my father’s library. Marcus Aurelius, Epictetus, Zeno. Stoic philosophers.”

“Philosophy, huh?”

“I want you to read some of it, Rick. I think you’ll be able to appreciate it.”

“All right.”

“And I think,” Kate continued, “that it will help you to learn how to be at peace, to be content.”

“I told you all that was over.”

“I know. But I also know how restless you are. I know that your entire adult life you’ve been on one adventure or another. These books… they’ve helped me a great deal, too. They’ve made me realize that the things I can’t change aren’t worth my time and energy. I can’t change how other people are going to act. I can’t stop horrible things from happening. I can only control my own life. I know you’ve spent a lot of time trying to change things. And you have, here on Edaline, and from the sound of it, you changed things on that alternate Earth, too. But now you can rest. You’ve done enough, Rick.”

Sullivan smiled. “The only thing I want to worry about now,” he said, “is making sure you’re safe and happy.”

Kate smiled. “Now that you’re back, I am. Never leave me again, Rick.”

Sullivan leaned over and kissed her lightly on the lips. “I won’t, Kate. I promise.”

REVEREND PHILLIP WRIGHT was visibly sweating. He took a handkerchief from his suit coat pocket and wiped his brow. The congregation was staring at him, rapt.

“The papists,” he said, “will have you believe that because Jesus appeared there in Rome, it is unequivocal proof that their religion is the true religion.”

The congregation voiced their disagreement. Reverend Wright nodded. He held up a finger and began waving it as he continued. “But remember this, brother and sisters: the man to whom our Lord first appeared, the man who was present when our Lord appeared on television… that man was
not
a Catholic.”

The crowd replied with a flurry of nods and amens.

“That man, Brother Peter, belongs to a non-denominational monastic order. It was he who had the first visions, it was he who was present—he and
not
the Pope—when Jesus chose to appear before those television cameras and reveal himself to the world.”

Wright wiped his brow again. “Do you see what this means? Jesus is sending his message to all good Christians of the world,
not
just the Catholics. But they are saying otherwise. It is that same kind of hubris that led men like Martin Luther and John Calvin away from the Catholic church!”

Wright walked slowly across the stage. He fixed his gaze at the camera in front of him. “Brothers and sisters, the message of Christ is for everyone, not just for Catholics, not even just for Christians. And he has returned!” He pointed at the camera. “Repent! Repent! Repent and be saved!”

The congregation roared in ecstasy. Wright closed his hand into a fist and pumped it into the air. “Praise Jesus! Praise Jesus! Praise Jesus!”

He closed his eyes and listened to the adoration of his congregants. He counted off ten seconds, and as he was about to resume speaking, the crowd suddenly fell silent. Wright opened his eyes. The people he could see beyond the spotlights appeared to be looking past him. Wright slowly turned around.

The auditorium echoed with feedback as the microphone fell to the stage. Wright fell with it and landed on his knees. Directly in front of the massive cross was the resurrected Christ, holding forth his palms and displaying the wounds from his crucifixion.

IMAM ABDULLAH EL-SAWY climbed to the top of the minaret and switched on the loudspeakers. He looked down across Cairo and licked his lips before beginning the call to prayer.

“
Allahu akbar!
” he called, holding out the first word for several seconds. “
Ash-hadu an-la ilaha illa llah
.”

He waited a moment for the reverberation to die down. “
Ash-hadu anna Muhammadan-Rasulullah
.”

He took a sip of water. As he prepared to speak the next words, the microphone went dead. He flipped the switch on the control panel off and on a few times then tapped on the microphone. It was still out.

He rested it in its cradle and took a deep inhalation of breath so he could carry on without the aid of electronic equipment. “
Hayya
….”

A low rumbling erupted from the speakers on the outside of the minaret. He lost his balance and fell backward, landing hard on his tailbone. He reached up for the control box of the speaker system but saw that it was already turned off. He reached around behind it and unplugged it, but still the rumbling continued.

As suddenly as it began, it stopped. The imam got to his feet, but before he was fully upright, a voice burst forth from the speakers. “Faithful Muslims,” it called in Arabic, “I am the one God and Muhammad is my prophet.”

Abdullah fell onto his knees and began to weep.

“The image of Jesus that appeared in Rome,” it continued, “is a deception. Do not believe the lies of the Christians, for yours is the one true faith.”

Abdullah placed his hands on the ground in front of him in the typical position of prayer. When he was found still in the minaret half an hour later, he was repeating the words “
Allahu akbar
” over and over again. When they had finally convinced him to come down from the minaret and into the mosque, he learned that the same message he had heard had been repeated from every minaret across the Muslim world.

TAHIR PATEL GAZED up at the statue of Krishna. With his hand, he waved a cloud of incense toward the statue. He picked up a tray of fruit for the
puja
, the sacred offering, and placed it before the god, chanting his prayers as he did so.

Tahir sat for several minutes more before the statue, praying and meditating, before slowly backing away. As he looked up at the face of Krishna, he stopped moving. He thought he had seen the statue’s red lips curve upward into a smile.

He bowed his head and said another prayer. When he looked again, there was a definite change in the god’s expression. Now the lips, which had before had a slight, subtle curve, were parted, as though Krishna were laughing.

Tahir threw himself down on the ground, prostrate before the statue. He heard a sound like sandals on flagstones. He glanced up and saw Krishna slowly lowering himself off his pedestal. He reached down, picked up an orange from the tray and held it in front of his eyes.

Tahir heard the sound of a tray falling behind him. He turned and saw another devotee standing at the entrance to the shrine. The man ran from the small room, and within less than a minute over a dozen people were crowded at the door.

Tahir had remained in place, watching Krishna eat his
puja
. After a few minutes, Krishna smiled at Tahir again, climbed back up onto his pedestal and was still.

BROTHER PETER DID not have any doubt that when he asked to see the Pope one hour before his Sunday blessing, he would be allowed to do so. After all, Jesus himself had assured him that Pius would grant him an audience. A few minutes before the blessing was to take place, he was ushered into the Pope’s study and greeted.

Peter bent down and kissed Pius’s ring as he had done before. The first time he had met with the Pope, Peter had been in awe of the man, despite not being Catholic. Something was different this time. He felt uncomfortable around Pius. He felt as though the man were hiding something.

Peter had never had such a strong visceral reaction to another person before. Perhaps he was coming down with a cold. Peter suppressed the feeling and rose up, smiling at the Pope as he did so.

Pius offered Peter a seat and took one himself. “We do not have much time before I must give my blessing,” he said, “but I felt very strongly that I must see you when you requested an audience. I feel as though God wants us to speak.”

Peter smiled. The uneasy feeling had subsided somewhat with Pius’s words, but it still lingered on the periphery. “It’s strange you should say that, Your Holiness. Two days ago, Christ came to me again.”

Pius raised an eyebrow. “Did he speak to you? Did he give you a message?”

“Yes. He said I should come see you here, now, just before your blessing.”

“Why?”

Peter grinned. “He said he’s going to appear again, to all the people in Saint Peter’s Square.”

The Pope nodded.

“He said that I was to tell you so you could prepare the people when you go to the window for the blessing.”

Pius XV crossed himself and muttered something under his breath. He glanced at the clock on the wall. “I wish there was time for you to tell me more,” he said, “but if what you say is true, I must go speak to them now. I must deliver the news that our Lord is going to make another appearance.”

Peter nodded. “Where shall I wait?”

The Pope appeared as though he were about to direct Peter outside. Then his expression grew strange, and he said, “You may wait there.”

Peter shifted in his chair and watched as Pius slowly walked over to the window and opened it. He began speaking to the crowd below, but Peter could not focus on what he was saying. The uneasiness returned, and it was stronger than before. Now it was a feeling of dread, as though something horrible was about to happen.

He heard a voice. It seemed distant, but as it drew closer, Peter recognized it as the voice of Christ.

Peter tried to focus on what the voice was saying, but it was still too far away, as though spoken from across a large courtyard. Peter closed his eyes. “You have a message for me, my Lord?” he whispered.

“Yes,” the voice came, loud and clear. “He is the antichrist. Destroy him.”

Peter gripped the armrests on his chair. “My Lord?”

“Destroy him.”

“Who?”

As if in answer, Peter’s head felt as though it were guided toward the window, toward Pius.

Peter scarcely knew what he was doing when he rose up from his chair. A dozen voices in his head were screaming for him to destroy the antichrist. But there were others telling him to stop, telling him it was wrong. Peter put his fingers on his temples, trying to make sense of the cacophony. When he looked at the Pope again, he saw a red tail briefly flick out from beneath Pius’s robes.

Peter quietly walked toward Pius, raised his hands and pushed. The Pope, whose hands were on the windowsill, was able to brace himself momentarily. In that moment, he turned and stared at Peter with fear and confusion on his face. After a few seconds, Peter’s greater strength forced Pius’s hands off the windowsill, and he slipped through the window. The crowd in the square screamed as one as the Pope fell and landed on the pavement below.

Three men in suits burst through the door of the study and threw Peter to the floor. One of them bent down and punched Peter in the face several times before violently pushing him over onto his stomach and grinding his face into the carpet.

Without struggling, Peter let them handcuff him and pull him out of the study, his mind still in a fog.

“I have done it, my Lord. I have done what you have asked me,” he said quietly as he was dragged away.

KATE HAD FOUND a small apartment on Faris. She and Sullivan had lived there only temporarily until they decided which city on the planet they would settle in. Sullivan had been quiet and withdrawn, leaving much of the decision-making to her.

Faris had three major cities, and the two of them had visited each one. Sullivan knew Kate was keeping him busy on purpose, trying to take his mind off of Allen. And he had to admit that it had worked, to an extent.

Faris had a lot to offer, especially for someone with Kate’s resources. They had finally decided on the smallest of the three cities. It offered a cosmopolitan lifestyle, which Kate enjoyed, but wasn’t a political or financial center like the planet’s other two cities, so it was not as busy.

They had found a house in one of the city’s high-end suburbs and, a few weeks after arriving on Faris, they had moved into their own home and begun decorating it. Kate had left one room empty. She had shown it to Sullivan and asked what he thought it could be for.

Sullivan glanced around the room. He noticed a small stack of books in one corner. He walked over to the books and picked them up. “Your father’s books on Stoicism?”

Kate smiled. “Yes. When I go back to Silvanus, I’m going to have his study packed up and recreated here. The dimensions of the room are almost the same. But,” she said, walking over to stand beside Sullivan, “it will be our study, too. I can’t leave it as a shrine to his memory any longer. He would have wanted his things, his books, to be used.”