Judgment Day (27 page)

"We've momentarily lost the picture from the spacecraft." Then after pressing on his earpiece, "We will return to live coverage of the drama unfolding in orbit around the moon as soon as possible. To recap, there has been a fire aboard one of the spheres and the pilot of the ship has been injured. They were able to locate the damaged craft and after the heroic efforts of two men, one an African-American, they were able to right the sphere, making it possible to rejoin the mother ship."

Shelly turned down the sound when Roland came in.

"How is Glen doing?" he asked.

"The burns are severe and there could be infection. We don't know if he has internal injuries but his abdomen is swollen and purplish."

"It doesn't sound good," Roland said.

"If we could get him to a hospital they might save him, but we're a quarter million miles away."

Christy wiped Glen's brow with a wet cloth. The man was pasty white and sweating.

"They kicked me off the flight deck," Roland said.

"They're trying to save Glen's life and we only get in the way," she said.

"I'm not so sure Glen's life is their primary concern."

"That's a terrible thing to say," Christy said sharply. "He's a friend and a member of their congregation."

"I was asked to leave the flight deck when Bob asked for the speed on the return flight."

"The Fellowship has always been secretive about their ships and their capabilities. You knew they were going to return faster than the flight out to demonstrate their technology."

"So why not let me hear it now? Soon the whole world will know."

Christy didn't respond but her eyes told him she thought he was paranoid.

"Right now they are up there deciding whether Glen will live or die."

"What do you mean?"

"Christy, what if this ship is capable of much more speed than they've let on? What if it can make the return to Earth in half the time—say fifty hours—but they don't want the world to know, so they decide they would rather let Glen die than reveal their secret."

"Keeping that secret isn't worth a man's life."

"What if they could get us back in a quarter of the time? A tenth?"

"Impossible."

"If this ship could travel to the Earth in ten hours would that secret be worth a man's life?"

"They wouldn't risk Glen's life just to keep a secret."

There was no point in arguing with Christy, but Roland felt she had been taken in by the Fellowship, blinded by her feelings for Mark. He would never marry her, Roland was sure of that. To marry someone outside their narrow definition of the faith was to be "unequally yoked." While the foot soldiers might marry with the hopes of redeeming the spouse, Mark Shepherd never could without splintering the Fellowship.

Excusing himself, Roland left for the cargo hold, where he found a flashlight in an emergency kit. While there he fished in Christy's environment suit for her moon samples. She smiled when he handed her the rocks, but he suddenly felt guilty.

"Sorry, it never occurred to me that you might want to be the first to touch them. I left my samples in my suit if you'd like to switch."

"I'm just happy to have been here," Christy said.

"Those will be worth a lot of money back on Earth."

"I would never sell mine, would you?"

"Never."

He had four rocks in his suit, a person in mind for each—Cindi Winslow was one. Now he handed Christy the flashlight.

"I saw Micah check Glen's pupillary response when you were changing."

Christy lifted Glen's eyelids and flashed the light in the comatose man's eyes.

"Both pupils are responding," Christy said.

"What does that mean, Christy?"

"It can mean many things—"

"What does it usually indicate?"

"He's not brain dead."

"He could be saved if we got to Earth in a hurry?"

"Maybe. I'm not a doctor."

He didn't say any more. He hadn't changed her mind about the cult, but he had started her thinking. Once started down that road, Roland was sure she would find her way to his point of view.

CHAPTER 51 SATELLITE

If you plant petunias, but among them grows a marigold, we call the unwanted flower a weed. Evil can be thought of as the unwanted vegetation in our garden. Put the marigold with other marigolds and it ceases to be a weed. Similarly, no one is evil among their own kind.

—
A HISTORY OF GOOD AND EVIL
, ROBERT WINSTON, PH.D.

G
rayson Goldwyn sat in his usual place at the end of Crow's table, an unlit cigar clamped in his teeth. Goldwyn was listening to Sylvia Swanson attentively, mindful of her position of power. Her silver hair hid her face, but Crow had seen it often enough since joining her in the House of Representatives. She had mentored him at first, but he quickly learned to work the system, trading votes, embracing special interest groups, hobnobbing with lobbyists. Now his power was out of proportion to his seniority and she resented him, even hated him. It didn't matter. He knew many of her secrets.

Crow turned his attention to the newest member of his council, Archie Cox. After William Lichter's disappearance, Rachel had recruited another NASA employee. Cox was shy and retiring, cowed by the presence of so many powerful personalities. His bald head was beaded with perspiration, his black-rimmed half glasses perched on the tip of his nose. Cox's gambling addiction made him easy prey for Rachel. He was hopelessly in debt to bookies, and Rachel now fed him enough of Crow's money to keep the leg breakers at bay, but not enough to get him off the hook. Like the congresswoman, there was no way out for Cox. He was Crow's for as long as Crow had use for him.

Cox was an assistant project manager currently assigned to project HeeChee, which was NASA's attempt to duplicate the technology of the cult—so far with no success. Most of project HeeChee amounted to covert surveillance of the cult. Today Cox had something special to share and he nervously thumbed the corner of a pad of yellow paper, waiting for the meeting to begin.

Crow surveyed the rest of those around the table, noticing that Tobias Stoop studiously avoided Crow's eyes. Before the meeting, Crow had taken him to task for his lack of progress. Stoop had explained that the Fellowship hadn't done any significant construction where there were endangered species and no significant pollutants could be found at any of their U.S. sites. Much to Stoop's disappointment they had found no radioactive waste.

Worse, the cult launches had actually reduced the use of chemical rockets that were significant polluters. Stoop was ready to move on to new targets, but Crow still had plans for him.

Bleary-eyed, Meaghan Slater dragged into the meeting late, her hand shaking as she poured a cup of coffee. She and Rachel had spent the evening together. Rachel, however, was as neat and attractive as ever. Plopping into her seat, Slater finger-combed her unkempt short hair while staring into the coffee cup. Slater's organization, the Womyn's Congress, had maintained a nonstop assault on the Fellowship, faxing press releases almost daily about its patriarchical practices. The most recent fax pointed out that despite the diversity of the moon landing crew, the cult was heavily dominated by males, with only a few females in key positions. Lawyers for the Womyn's Congress had filed lawsuits to block the use of federal funds to purchase launch and communications services from the Fellowship. The suits were working their way slowly through the courts, but they had lost the early rounds, running into the constitutional right of freedom of religion. The Womyn's Congress's propaganda barrage had thoroughly discredited the cult with liberals—that was the easy part—but had made few inroads into the broad middle class that continued to be blinded by the glitter of the Fellowship's technological breakthrough.

"Thank you all for coming," Crow said in a soothing voice, developed through years in the funeral business. "I wish I had better news for you but as you all know we have failed in our efforts to end the cult's domination of the artificial gravity technology."

Meaghan Sister looked up with bloodshot eyes, her words coming in short bursts as if speaking made her head throb.

"I disagree," she said. "We've been successful in uncovering the sexual abuse the cult had hidden away. As therapy progresses we are likely to uncover ritual abuse, perhaps even Satan worship as well."

Rachel stirred in her chair behind Crow and he suppressed a smile. Ms. Slater didn't realize how close she was to real Satan worshipers.

"The leaders have been bound over for trial and the evidence is damning," Slater continued. "We can use the sexual abuse to drive a wedge into the cult. With some of the fathers out of the homes their wives might be reached. They've been conditioned to be passive housewives but they have also been taught they have a maternal instinct. We can use that to turn them against their husbands. Some will want to hurt their husbands just as their children have been hurt. These women could be the key to acquiring the cult's technology."

Goldwyn pointed at Ms. Slater with his cold cigar.

"She's right. I'd say we have the cult on the ropes. Once the trial is under way the cult's crimes will be exposed by every media outlet in the world. The mothers of those children will be running scared. You might try offering money to some of them to move away and start a new life—in exchange for certain information."

"I'm ready to offer money," Crow said, "but we have a standing offer of one hundred thousand dollars for information on the whereabouts of Ira Breitling and no one has come forward."

"They still have faith," Congresswoman Swanson said. "Once Shepherd is convicted they'll fight each other to betray Breitling."

"Perhaps," Crow said.

"What about the moon landing fiasco?" Goldwyn asked. "The death of one of their own people took some of the shine off of their success. I understand they have been grounded by the FAA."

The cigar went back into Goldwyn's mouth as he finished speaking.

Now Archie Cox leaned forward, clearing his throat, waiting to be called on.

"Mr. Cox," Crow said.

"The cult did include FAA and NASA representatives on its investigation team and the cause of the fire has been determined," Cox said tentatively. "They will be flying again soon."

Disappointment spread around the table and Cox let the others grumble before continuing.

"Unfortunately, the accident resulted from an easily correctable design flaw. Wiring under the seats in the sphere was compressed by the weight of the pilot, causing it to rub against the seat frame. Eventually the insulation was rubbed off and it shorted, the spark igniting insulation. The high oxygen content of the sphere meant the fire spread quickly. The sphere filled with toxic fumes,- at the same time the propulsion system failed and it crashed into the moon."

"Can't they keep the ships grounded and draw out the investigation?" Goldwyn asked.

"The cult has already rewired two of its spheres using protective conduit. Besides, if we keep them shut down they'll fly out of Mexico."

"I know we've made some progress with the cult, but something has happened that makes acquiring the technology urgent," Crow said. "Mr. Cox, would you please share what you've learned"

Now Cox was the center of attention. Sweat beads coalesced on his bald head, then ran down his forehead.

"As you know, on the trip to the moon the cult placed a satellite in orbit between the Earth and the moon. The satellite was balanced between the gravitational fields of the two bodies, which places it nearer the moon than the Earth. No one had seen the cult satellite before the TV broadcast but as soon as we did we knew it was unusual for a relay satellite. Much too large for one thing and it showed similar design characteristics with the spheres, although it was cylindrical. When we later directed a space telescope to take a closer look it was gone."

Expecting something dramatic, those at the table stared blankly.

"You mean you couldn't find it?" Stoop asked.

Looking over the top of his glasses, Cox said, "We knew right where to look for it. The satellite wasn't there."

"I fail to see the significance," Goldwyn said, his cigar firmly in his teeth. "It probably drifted around to the other side of the moon."

"Not possible," Cox said simply. "There is another piece to this puzzle," he said, beginning to enjoy being the center of attention. "Since the satellite wasn't where they left it, we searched lunar and Earth orbits for it but with no luck. We used radar scans, infrared, space telescopes, every technology at our disposal. We finally had to turn the space telescopes back over to civilian use. Two weeks later we got a call from Professor Shrenk at the University of Arizona. He had been using the Hubble telescope to study Venus and turned up something interesting. One of his photos showed an object in orbit. It appears to be the cult's satellite."

Now the group talked over each other, asking questions. Cox continued. "If we use the day the
God's Love
arrived at Earth as the earliest day the satellite could have departed, and assume the day Shrenk shot the photos was the day it arrived at Venus—which is unlikely—the satellite journeyed to the second planet in our system in thirty-three days."

Those in the room were surprised but lacked the knowledge to understand the significance. Meaghan Slater was the first to admit her ignorance. "That's fast, isn't it?" Slater asked.

"The Magellan space probe took fifteen months to reach Venus. The cult's satellite did it in a fifteenth of that time. Put it another way, that satellite traveled at a speed in excess of thirty-three thousand miles per hour."

Goldwyn looked properly impressed, but Meaghan Slater and Congresswoman Swanson only mildly interested. Tobias Stoop yawned. Cox tried to ram home the significance.

"The cult's trip to the moon took four days. The craft orbiting Venus could have traveled from the Earth to the moon in eight hours."

Now all except Stoop were impressed, each seeing the implications from their own perspective. Goldwyn struggled between seeing it as an important story and worry over the expanding power of what his paper was calling "techno-religion." Meaghan Slater was frustrated by the continued success of the cult—patriarchies were an anathema to a feminist. Congresswoman Swanson saw opportunity. The cult's success could be used to convince others they had been victimized. She had built her career on pitting groups against each other—minorities against the majority, poor against rich, secular against sacred.

Still disengaged, Stoop watched dispassionately, irritating Crow. Crow had expected more from the poor-rich-boy but he and his ecoterrorists had made only halfhearted efforts at harassing the cult. The lawsuits they had filed had been quickly dismissed. Their most potent weapon was halting new development by forcing endless environmental impact studies, then using those studies to invoke the Endangered Species Act and force more studies. On average they delayed projects nearly four years and only thirty percent of projects had the financial resources for lengthy court battles. Those that did proceed were then sabotaged. Crow needed all his guns firing and wasn't going to let Stoop's Earth's Avengers sit on the sidelines.

"The cult's technological edge seems to be increasing exponentially," Crow said. "The moon is now only a day trip, Venus a month away. What is their intent? What will they do with this technology?"

Crow let his words hang, the tension build. Stoop checked his watch.

"This cult is different from others in several respects. The most obvious difference is their technological expertise. Given the disdain fundamentalists show for education their scientific innovations are particularly surprising. The second difference is their seeming reluctance to proselytize. Normally cults shear as many sheep as they can lay their hands on. Most distressing to me is that they don't invest in facilities. Most cults build churches which are really monuments to themselves. The Fellowship has the money to build, but they don't. Why?"

"They build in space," Goldwyn corrected.

Crow smiled coldly—his impatience clear.

"Yes, but only the minimum to meet their needs. Where's the monument?"

Goldwyn pointed with his cigar. "So what's your point?"

"Put the three together. They develop technology that allows them to travel into space efficiently and travel through space with great speed. Second, they limit the number of cult members. Third, they don't put money into earth-bound structures." Pausing again for effect, he then said, "What does that suggest to you?"

Congresswoman Swanson was the first to see it.

"They're planning on leaving the Earth," she said.

Now they all gasped, mumbling to their neighbors. Crow noticed Stoop was interested again.

"Move to where?" Slater asked. "Venus? Is that possible?"

Now Cox leaned across the table so all could see him, waiting for Crow to acknowledge him with a nod.

"No, it's not possible to live on Venus. Venus is nearly a twin of Earth btit covered with a thick cloud layer that traps ultraviolet radiation, creating a greenhouse effect. The surface temperature is nine hundred degrees Fahrenheit and the atmospheric pressure is eighty-eight times that on Earth. The atmosphere is almost entirely carbon dioxide, and sulphuric acid clouds circle the planet."

"But that's where they sent their satellite," Goldwyn said.

"It may have been only a test," Cox said. "It's more likely they would move into orbit or possibly to the moon."

"The moon doesn't have an atmosphere," Goldwyn pointed out needlessly.

"They would have to live underground," Cox continued. "Oxygen can be cooked out of the lunar surface and with a few nutrients the lunar soil could grow ample food. A space colony makes more sense, however. Their launch vehicles have dropped the price of delivering payloads to orbit to the point where it is feasible to build a sizable space station."

"In orbit they are vulnerable to attack from Earth, and to a lesser degree that would be true on the moon," Crow pointed out. "This cult may be different than any other in some respects but all cults share one characteristic: paranoia. They believe someone is out to get them—the government, secret organizations, the devil—who the enemy is doesn't matter."