The Religion War (3 page)

Waters and Ames were patted down and disarmed immediately. A soldier approached Cruz to do the same but thought better of it, saluting and moving aside. Waters, his identity confirmed, was rearmed and followed Cruz toward the main control room. Cruz's presence scattered people in the hallway, pressing them against the walls, like a destroyer class ship moving through a koi pond. Everyone had heard the news and they knew the implications: Cruz was one war away from controlling most of the world.

Cruz exploded into the control room and barked to the staff, each of them stiffened by his entrance, "Get me on the bird!"

Technicians worked ferociously to eliminate the risk of being asked,"What's taking so long?"They knew the drill.Within minutes Cruz's voice and face would be broadcast onto every television and radio station in the Christian-allied world. The system had been used only a few times, always for emergencies. This qualified.

Cruz placed himself on a black leather chair in front of a remote-controlled camera.A technician floated in and attached a microphone to his shirt. A disembodied voice counted down from ten, the room fell silent, lights dimmed except on Cruz, and the camera's red light glowed.

Cruz spoke. "I am General Horatio Cruz, High Commander of NATO. Minutes ago the Defense Department building, along with the military heads of twenty-five NATO countries, was the target of a cowardly attack by—most people believe—al-Zee. I have survived and will see to it that the defense of our countries is not compromised by the temporary gap in command structure. In a few days I will announce my plans for ending this struggle with the forces of al-Zee. I know I can count on the support of each of your nations.That is all for now."

Cruz unhooked his microphone and stood up before the red camera light went out, in a calculated move to show the world he was a man of action, a man who knew exactly what to do. And he felt that way, too. He had a clearly defined enemy, a battle plan, and now no second-guessers. His head was unusually clear. God was obviously on his side, guiding him. Cruz liked that feeling. It lasted exactly four seconds.

A captain cautiously approached Cruz and said, "There's an old man in the lobby, with a blanket. He says he wants to talk to you."

Cruz's forehead turned purple with rage. But he wasn't going to lose it now, not here, not in front of his men. He knew that everything he said or did for the next few days would be the subject of history books for centuries. Worse, if he got a reputation for being irrational, it would make it harder for him to order people into harm's way. Now was the time for cool, no matter how much effort that required. Cruz took a deep breath before speaking.

"Take him to I-Wing. Find out who he's working for and how he knows what he knows. Don't kill him until you're sure he's telling the truth."

I-Wing was the interrogation center at H2. During wartime, or anything that looked like wartime, all rules of interrogation were suspended. No one who entered I-Wing ever left, so the Christian-allied world remained blissfully ignorant of the work being done on its behalf. They enjoyed the pleasant fiction that only the other side perpetrated atrocities. The bad guys
tortured.
The good guys only
interrogated.
Except that no one ever saw a picture of anyone who had recently been
interrogated.

The Avatar was sixty-two years old but could have been mistaken for ninety, gaunt, clad in a threadbare deliveryman's outfit from an earlier time. His silver-gray hair was short and untamed. A red plaid blanket covered his shoulders, clutched tight in front.

Thirty years ago, as a package deliveryman, he met the prior Avatar, from whom he learned the secrets that brought him to the fifth level of awareness, but it took a terrible toll on his body. Humans are not genetically equipped to handle this kind of knowledge, and he was no exception. The awareness aged him prematurely. He understood too much about reality, and with that knowledge came an overwhelming responsibility, and an incalculable stress that spread to every cell of his body.

He was rich beyond imagination and lived a hermit life in a Victorian home in San Francisco. Most of his money was inherited from the prior Avatar, according to the Avatar tradition. The rest of his fortune was made by investing, using his unparalleled ability to recognize patterns before they fully developed.

He was painfully lonely. The last Avatar hadn't advised him to avoid personal relationships; it was just obvious that he had to. No one could understand the pressures he endured. He could no longer talk to normal people without leaving them changed in some way. It was unfair, he thought, to change a person for no reason. No ordinary person could understand what it was like to be an Avatar, so even when he did talk to people, when it was absolutely necessary, he was still utterly alone.

He felt as though he was one short gasp from insanity. Most of the time he felt certain that he had a special role to play, that he was
chosen,
that he alone could save the world from the upcoming destruction. Other times he felt he must surely be mad, because only insane people think like that. And they, as did he, have no capacity to know which category they really belong to.

On this topic, as on so many others, there was no one he could talk to. The Avatar knew he needed to keep to himself, to suffer in silence. In the end, he expected that the loneliness would kill him before the knowledge ate him from the inside. Solitude was his personal monster.

The pressure was sometimes so great that he fantasized about trying to tell someone exactly who and what he was, hoping to ease the pain of isolation. But when he imagined the conversation, he would visualize the face of the other person losing its smile and taking on an expression of fear, or pity, or loathing. There is no way to explain to someone that you are the keeper of reality, the one most aware, the guardian of God's intent. So he kept it to himself, and he let it age him.

He knew that someday he would find his replacement, but only when his body failed. It wasn't time for that. He had work to do. This was why he existed, or perhaps it was the surest sign of his insanity. In honest moments of reflection, he didn't know which.

"I'm sorry. Really, I am," said the Avatar, cuffed to the wall in I-Wing.

"For what—getting caught?" growled the thick-necked interrogator with an oversize forehead and stubby fingers, as he moved his cart full ofpain-tools nearer his subject.

"I'm sorry for what I have to do."

"This will end quickly if you tell me everything," said the interrogator.

"That's why I'm here: to tell you everything."

"Then we're going to get along great," said the interrogator, as he plugged an electronic device into a wall outlet, tapping two electrodes together to spark them unnecessarily, making a point.

"I won't enjoy this," said the Avatar.

"That's the understatement of the century?" said the interrogator.

"There's never enough time to do things right," said the Avatar. "I don't blame you personally. You just happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I'm in a hurry and I don't have the luxury of doing things in a more civilized way."

"Acting crazy don't work in here, blanket-man. I've seen all the tricks. Playing the loon is chapter one in the stop-hurting-me book. It ain't even clever. In fact, truth be told, I'm insulted that you'd even try."

"I'm sure you're very good at your work. I didn't mean to imply otherwise," said the Avatar. "May we start soon?"

"What's that—reverse psychology? Again, you insult me."

The Avatar sighed and muttered another apology that was lost.

"Before I turn your guts into jam, how about you tell me everything I need to know. It's a little courtesy I like to extend to my guests. No one has ever taken me up on the offer, but I feel it's only fair to put it out there. Let's say that you figure out what questions I need to ask and then you just answer them. If you make me ask the obvious questions over and over, I'm going to get tired. And that makes me cranky .You don't want that."

"Very well," replied the Avatar. "And again, I am truly sorry."

"Talk or get scrambled. It's your choice, old man," said the interrogator.

"Hypothetically," said the Avatar, "if you met someone who literally knew everything, would that person appear sane to you?"

"Are you saying you know everything?" asked the interrogator. "If you do, we're going to be here a long time."

"I'mjust asking, if such a person existed, someone who knew the answers to the important questions of life, such as why we're here, what's our purpose, then how could you recognize that person as the real thing?"

"If he was so smart, then everything he said would make sense. It wouldn't be too hard to know he was the real deal."

"You would think so, but look around you. The armies of al-Zee believe that the founder of their religion rode to paradise on a flying horse. Their enemies, the Christians, believe that no horses have ever flown. They can't both be right. At best, only one version is true. Either a horse flew or it didn't. People can't seem to agree on something as simple as flying horses, so how good are people at recognizing deeper truths when they see them?"

"Okay, I get it. Now you'll tell me that you're the smartest person in the universe so I shouldn't hurt you. Well, I gotta give you credit for originality .That's one I haven't heard."

The Avatar studied the interrogator, noticing a chain around his neck, the sort that often holds a cross. His features and coloring suggested a genetic path through Ireland. His teeth were crooked on the bottom, and he had remnants of acne scars from his youth, revealing a childhood of modest means. His movements were graceless, bordering on awkward. He had the first sign of drinker's nose. His eyes were tired and pillowed. His posture was a tale of dark happenings over a lifetime.

"Tell me something brilliant, old man," mocked the interrogator. "Convince me that you're the smartest man in the world and I'll let you go."

"I don't think the smartest man in the world would believe that you're sincere."

The interrogator flashed an executioner's grin and turned up the voltage. He moved the electric paddles toward the old man's chest.

"This is just to get your attention. Do me a favor and don't die right away."

"Who is Patrick?" asked the Avatar.

The interrogator froze for a moment, then quick-boiled. "How do you know my brother? What kind of bullshit is this? What else do you know about me?"

The old man looked into the eyes of his interrogator and took a deep breath."I know that you were raised Catholic, but as an adult you pick and choose the parts you want to believe.You think it's okay to hurt people as long as it's in the interest of the greater good. You convinced yourself that you'd still go to heaven, so long as you accept Jesus before you die. You were treated unkindly as a child, especially by the older boys and by the better athletes.You don't sleep much, because every time you close your eyes you see your victims. You hear their voices, just before you drift off to sleep, and it pulls you back to restlessness. Sometimes you try to stop the voices by drinking. The drinking works, to a point, but it has ruined your relationships."

The interrogator dropped the paddles and stepped away from the old man.

"What's your name?" asked the interrogator.

"Avatar."

"Do I know you?"

"Not as well as I know you," said the Avatar.

"How do you know so much about me?" asked the interrogator.

"It's called a'cold read,'" answered the Avatar.

"You're freaking me out. It's time for you to stopjacking me around," said the interrogator, picking up the paddles.

For centuries, phony psychics have used a version of the
cold read
to dupe gullible customers. It is nothing but good observations combined with educated guesses and generalities, but it seems like so much more to the person hearing it. Some fake psychics were unusually skilled at noticing clues from a person's appearance or mannerisms and making guesses that sounded uncannily accurate. The Avatar was the best of the best, able to recognize patterns so subtle that even the most skilled phony psychic would have found it amazing.Today's situation was especially easy. The interrogator was clearly Irish. Someone in his family was probably named Patrick. He was probably Catholic, judging from the chain around his neck. He probably experienced guilt about his job. He probably drank, judging from his appearance and his occupation.

"May I continue?" asked the Avatar.

The interrogator nodded uneasily, and the Avatar continued. "Sometimes, especially when you've been drinking, you wonder if there's any point in living. You think about ending your life. You aren't sure what's stopping you."

The interrogator placed the electrodes on the cart and clicked the Off button. He crossed his arms, his posture revealing that he was both angry and interested.

The Avatar continued, "You think about the risk of going to hell ifyou kill yourself, versus the odds that hell is just a fairy tale to scare people into good behavior. You wonder if God would forgive a suicide. You figure the stakes are too high to take a chance. You wish you had someone to talk with about your urge, but you think people would see you as damaged goods ifyou let your feelings out. It would affect your career and still not give you the certainty you crave."

"You're a bastard," said the interrogator.

"I hear that a lot," said the Avatar. "One more thing:Your arm itches," said the Avatar, merging his knowledge of hypnosis with the cold read to make it more powerful. The interrogator was now in a highly suggestible frame of mind, boggled by the seeming accuracy of the Avatar's insights, though they were little more than observation and pattern recognition. The human brain doesn't like confusion. It will seek the relief of certainty wherever it can find it, even if it has to hallucinate to do so. The Avatar was keeping the interrogator in a mentally uncomfortable position, preparing him to crave the certainty that the Avatar would provide.