The Unearthing (41 page)

“Because, then what’s the point?”

“What if there is no point?” Her smile faded, a distant look crossing her face. Her eyes seemed to shimmer under the blacklight. For a moment she seemed different; her face sad and at peace, lonesome…so utterly lonesome…James was moved by the half-second hint of serenity he’d seen in her face.

“There is James,”

“How do you know?” Allison smiled, not quite understanding herself just why, but at that second she
did
know that there was.

“I just do,” she said. She bent to kiss him. “I just do. And you have to accept that even if there isn’t, there’s no point in spending your life afraid. James, I care about you a lot. But I was so…
pissed
at what you did yesterday, things almost ended between us. You’ve got to get over this, James. You’re going to self-destruct if you don’t.”

♦♦♦

“Elder Santino?” Santino squeezed his eyes tighter shut and groaned. Couldn’t anyone in this place sleep
in
a little? He squinted an eye open, looking at the clock. Not nearly seven. The call of his name and honorific came through the console’s speaker a second time. No mistaking
that
voice. He reached for the console by his bed, unrolling the screen and tabbing it on. The face of his sleep-depriving tormentor appeared onscreen.

“Good morning Brother Simon,” He groaned, blearily, “You Catholics really don’t believe in letting the wicked rest, do you?” Brother Simon chuckled.

“Actually, Elder Santino I’m calling because His Holiness has requested that you join him for breakfast again this morning.”

“I really wish we could meet for lunch, just once,” Santino quipped, “Then I might actually be able to sleep until after eight in the morning.”

“His Holiness is going to be in Zurich, this afternoon,” The young Monk said, “Appearing in person before the World Ship Summit.”

“In person?” Santino remarked, “Hell, when I testified before the World Ship Summit it was over the Grid.”

“His Holiness
is
head of the Roman Catholic Church,” Gage replied, “There are over three billion Catholics around the world, Elder Santino. A billion more Christians recognize the sanctity of the office he holds. That kind of influence opens doors.”

“And gets people out of bed at indecent hours too, I’ve noticed,” Santino said, finally resolved to being awake. He rolled out of bed.

“What time is breakfast, today?”

“Seven thirty.”

“So why wake me up now? Has protocol for eating with the Pope changed in the last two days?”

“No, but I thought you’d like time to get ready. You explained how suddenly we came calling for you last time.”

“That was because I like to
sleep
a little, while I can!”

“Oh, okay then,” Gage said, helpfully, “Now I’ll know better for next time. Good day, Elder Santino.” The screen went blank.

“Next time I’m taking the battery out of this damn thing,” Santino said, tugging on the screen release so it rolled back into the rear of the console.

As Santino was shown into the Pontiff’s private garden again, he discovered a table not set for two, but for several. Already some had assembled, seated around the table with the Pope. Santino recognized a couple of faces, notably Rabbi Abrams, Imam Ressam and Brahman Radu. Pope Simon Peter rose from his chair to greet Santino.

“There you are, Elder!” he said warmly, shaking Santino’s hand, “Welcome. Have you met the other guests?”

“Some of them, your Eminence,” Santino said as Rabbi Abrams came over to shake Santino’s hand, “I wasn’t expecting so many people to be joining us,”

Simon Peter smiled.

“I feel more as though I am joining everyone else for breakfast,” He said, “No, you’ve all been called here together for a very important reason.”

“His Holiness has made a point of keeping mum on the subject,” Abrams told Santino, “He’s waiting for everyone to be assembled before we’re told what’s going on.”

“I can only assume it has something to do with the Ship,” Santino said.

The Pope smiled. “Yes, it does,” he replied, mirthfully, “In a very direct way.” He patted both men on the shoulders and moved off to greet more new arrivals, namely the representatives of the Hindu and Pagan delegations.

“Only a couple of people here are actually the heads of their delegations,” Abrams observed, “What do you make of that?” Santino arched an eyebrow.

“I really don’t know,” he said, “I can only guess that these people distinguished themselves in some way or another over the last couple of weeks and the Pope’s asked us here because of it.”

“Doesn’t it make you wonder what it is you’ve done to impress him?”

“Do you?”

“Frequently,” Abrams said, “Frankly, I thought I’d rather pissed off the head of
my
delegation with some of my statements, so I’m a little surprised at being here. Why do you think you’re here?”

“I’ve been to the Ship,” Santino said, “I was there when it was unearthed, as a matter of fact. His Holiness asked me for my testimony about it just the other day. I can only assume that’s what I’m doing here.” He said this as he and Abrams sat down at the large table. The other delegates were doing likewise as the Pope strolled casually back towards the table, the head of the Islamic Delegation with him. Everyone stood as Simon Peter took his place at the head of the table. He reached out to either side of him, grasping Rabbi Abrams’ hand on his left and the head of the Pagan delegation on his right. Everyone else around the table likewise linked hands.

“I think it would be appropriate, if we took a moment to bow our heads and pray silently to the Lord in the ways that our cultures have taught us,” The Pope said. They bowed their heads in prayer. Santino, not much of a faithful person, did a slow count to sixty in his head and then looked around. Everyone else was still bowed in prayer. He looked around the table, spotting faces he’d come to recognize at the very least as belonging to a particular delegation over the last couple of weeks. Rabbi Abrams, of course from the Jewish Delegation; His Holiness, the Pope; the head of the Pagan Delegation had been introduced to Santino at some function or another. She was a pleasant if somewhat spacey woman; Imam Ressam was not only heading up his delegation, but was Khalif of the New Council of Islam; Brahman Radu was a friend from Santino’s committee from the Vatican Council; the Dalai Llama was at his side. Parul Ghandi was, besides the Pope, probably the most easily recognizable person at the table: The head of the Hindu Delegation was also Prime Minister of India. Soon the others had finished praying and the Pope indicated that they should all sit down. Attendants came over and began setting dishes down on the table, creating a small buffet. Before anyone could help themselves, the Pontiff rose and took up Rabbi Abrams’ plate.

“What are you having, Rabbi?” the Pontiff asked.

“Bacon, eggs and sausage,” Abrams joked. “Actually, toast and honey, with a half of grapefruit, if you please.” Pope Simon Peter nodded and bent to the task of serving Abrams’ breakfast. In similar fashion, he served everyone else around the table before finally fixing his own plate and sitting down. Small talk dominated much of breakfast, but as second cups of tea and coffee were served, people helping themselves to more food as they desired, the Pope rose again and addressed his guests:

“I’ve invited you all here this morning because I have an important request to make of all of you,” the Pontiff began, “When I called for this conference, back when the Ship Unearthed itself, I did so mainly to stave off a worldwide religious crisis and to find the Ship’s proper perspective within the contexts of our beliefs, particularly what it must mean for the Judeo-Christian teachings and especially the Roman Catholic Church. I feel that although we have made much progress towards better understanding one another’s beliefs as well as our own, we have not made great inroads into understanding what the Ship means for us, or more precisely: what the Lord intends for us to learn from the Ship.”

“Perhaps,” the Dalai Llama suggested with a polite interjection, “The understanding and appreciation we are learning for one another’s cultures and religious beliefs, is what we are intended to learn from Ship’s Unearthing. I do not find it surprising that it would take such an event to bring us all together. We Humans are a close-minded species and we hate in each other what we so often hate about ourselves. The Ship has taught us that we have more in common in our hopes, our fears and our values than any of us previously believed.” The Pope nodded at the Buddhist’s sage words.

“That is indeed at the very least part of the message intended for us to find,” the Pontiff continued, “But I no longer see how it will be possible to reach any better understanding as long as we remain here in Rome. The World Council is currently debating whether or not to continue with the Ship Survey Expedition. If they decide not to, steps are going to be taken to seal the Ship off from the rest of the World, permanently.” This was all news that they had heard before. Almost every media outlet was carrying the debate. But the Pontiff was obviously going somewhere and everyone waited attentively, respectfully, while he took a sip of tea to moisten his throat. He let out a small, satisfied sigh as the tea warmed his stomach and then returned to the topic at hand:

“If the world loses access to the Ship,” he said, “We will lose a great deal. Not simply from technological advances, which even I must admit will be of great benefit to humanity if used wisely and judiciously, but we will also lose any possible spiritual benefit the Ship may have for us. That is why I will be traveling to Zurich this afternoon, to testify before the World Ship Summit. And that is why I would ask all of you to come with me so that together we may petition the World Summit to keep the Ship Survey Expedition going and to grant access to the Ship to delegates from the Fourth Vatican Council.”

♦♦♦

James got up slowly, carefully from bed. He woke up with a gasping intake of breath, terror filling his insides like the cold sweat covering his skin. Allison was asleep beside him as he rolled from bed. He found a pair of jogging pants and a t-shirt in the dark and crept into the kitchen. He took two pills, slipping them under his tongue where they quickly dissolved. Soon he felt a rush of blissful relaxation flow into him. But still the Fear was there, like a gibbering creature in the back of his mind. James fumbled in the dark for the pack of joints he knew had been left on the table. He pulled two from the nearly-full pack and made his way out onto the balcony. He lifted the grate in the balcony floor, accessing the fire escape. He climbed down into the park common shared by the apartment complex, strolling the grounds. There were other late-night denizens out at this hour. The type of people James had come to expect in an inner-city common at this time of night: the youth counterculture, zoners and party freaks; a teen couple having furtive sex in a darkened doorway; low-end gang bangers on patrol for the CBA--the united mob that had grown out of the old Crips and Bloods and their affiliated West Coast crews. James sat down on the back of a park bench and lit up. It helped to be outside among people. A homeless old man with a long scar down the left side of his face watched James intently from where he lay propped against the side of a building. His gaze made him feel uncomfortable and so James got up, heading back home. He was staggering by the time he tossed away the joint, under chemical onslaught from the tranquilizers and the marijuana. He got turned around somehow and found himself by an outdoor shelter. He decided to sit down and rest a moment, his head dizzy and everything’s perspective sharply screwed up. James could still sense the Fear, albeit in a detached fashion. But it was still there, still whispering in his ear that time was not as long as he’d like; he would die, he would die. James sat there, twirling the other joint around in his fingers. He was experiencing mild hallucinations; electric colours in place of the shadows, everything around him in sharp detail, the night sky a grey-green with rolling clouds. He looked up and noticed someone in the shelter. A young man, maybe a couple of years James’ junior, pulled a cylindrical ampoule from his pocket, breaking off one end and revealing a needle point. James recognized the object immediately: it was an injector for Oil; the last great designer drug. James watched as the young man brought the injector down hard against his leg. The needle automatically injected the drug. The young man’s eyes rolled up in his head and he leaned back against the wall. Oil was almost fifty years old. Legend had it that when prohibition shut down Big Tobacco, a cigarette company scientist found a way to synthesize heroin and nicotine into a deadly, super-addictive compound he’d called Oil. Indeed the new drug was more addictive than either heroin or nicotine combined; it was one of a handful of dangerous drugs that was kept strictly criminalized. Possession of more than a few ampoules meant an automatic life sentence, no parole, in most of the Western world. James had done Oil once or twice. The high was amazing, rapturously orgasmic, one that had a calming, blissful effect even as it heightened your senses. The sense of lethargic well-being stayed with you hours after the high finally gave out. In the space of a heartbeat, he considered the terror he’d wake up with in the middle of the night, the paralyzing Fear that would overtake him at odd times during the day. The Oil might give him an out; a calmative that would keep the worst at bay. He’d only have to use it until he finally got over this terror. He knew he would eventually. Just right now he needed something to get him through it. The decision made, he acted instantly. The Oil-head blinked his eyes languidly, still unsure of the predicament before him. James spoke: