Genetically, you are fully human, said Gladstone.
It was not a question. I did not respond.
Jesus Christ was said to be fully human, she said. And also fully divine. Humanity and Godhead at intersection.
I was amazed at her reference to that old religion. Christianity had been replaced first by Zen Christianity, then Zen Gnosticism, then by a hundred more vital theologies and philosophies. Gladstones home-world was no repository for discarded beliefs and I assumedand hopedthat neither was the CEO. If he was fully human and fully God, I said, then I am his antimatter image.
No, said Gladstone, I would imagine that the Shrike your pilgrim friends are confronting is that.
I stared. It was the first time she had mentioned the Shrike to me, despite the fact that I knewand she knew that I knewthat it had been her plan which led the Consul to open the Time Tombs and release the thing.
Perhaps you should have been on that pilgrimage, M. Severn, said the CEO.
In a way, I said, I am.
Gladstone gestured, and a door to her private quarters opened. Yes, in a way you are, she said. But if the woman who carries your counterpart is crucified on the Shrikes legendary tree of thorns, will you suffer for all eternity in your dreams?
I had no answer, so I stood there and said nothing.
We will talk in the morning after the conference, said Meina Gladstone. Good night, M. Severn. Have pleasant dreams.
Eight
Silenus is shouting, but the wind whips away words. Brawne Lamia gestures toward the one tent still standing; the storm has collapsed or ripped away the others. They crowd into Silenuss tent. Colonel Kassad coming last, passing the body in gently. Inside, their shouts can be heard above the crack of fiberplastic canvas and the paper-splitting rip of lightning.
Dead? shouts the Consul, peeling back the cloak Kassad had wrapped around Hoyts nude body. The cruciforms glow pinkly.
The Colonel points to the telltales blinking on the surface of the FORCE-issue medpak adhered to the priests chest. The lights blink red except for the yellow winking of the systems-sustaining filaments and modules. Hoyts head rolls back, and now Weintraub can see the millipede suture holding the ragged edges of the slashed throat together.
Sol Weintraub tries to locate a pulse manually; finds none. He leans forward, sets his ear to the priests chest. There is no heartbeat, but the welt of the cruciform there is hot against Sols cheek. He looks at Brawne Lamia. The Shrike?
Yes I think I dont know. She gestures
toward the antique pistol she still holds. I emptied the magazine. Twelve shots at whatever it was.
Did you see it? the Consul asks Kassad.
No. I entered the room ten seconds after Brawne, but I didnt see anything.
What about your fucking soldier gadgets? says Martin Silenus. He is crowded in the back of the tent, huddled in a near-fetal position.
Didnt all that FORCE shit show something?
No.
A small alarm sounds from the medpak, and Kassad detaches another plasma cartridge from his belt, feeds it into the paks chamber, and sits back on his heels, nipping his visor down to watch out the opening of the tent. His voice is distorted by the helmet speaker. Hes lost more blood than we can compensate for here. Did anyone else bring first aid equipment?
Weintraub rummages in his pack. I have a basic kit. Not enough for this, though. Whatever slashed his throat cut through everything.
The Shrike, whispers Martin Silenus.
It doesnt matter, says Lamia, hugging herself to stop her body from shaking. Weve got to get help for him. She looks at the Consul.
Hes dead, says the Consul. Even a ships surgery wont bring him back.
We have to try! shouts Lamia, leaning forward to grab the Consuls tunic front. We cant leave him to those things She gestures toward the cruciform glowing beneath the skin of the dead mans chest.
The Consul rubs his eyes. We can destroy the body. Use the Colonels rifle
Were going to die if we dont get out of this fucking storm! cries Silenus, The tent is vibrating, fiberplastic pounding the poets head and back with each billow. The sound of sand against fabric is like a rocket taking off just outside. Call the goddamned ship. Call it!
The Consul pulls his pack closer, as if guarding the antique comlog inside it. Sweat glistens on his cheeks and forehead.
We could wait the storm out in one of the Tombs, says Sol Weintraub. The Sphinx, perhaps.
Fuck that, says Martin Silenus.
The scholar shifts in the cramped space and stares at the poet. You came all this way to find the Shrike. Are you telling us that youve changed your mind now that he seems to have made an appearance?
Silenuss eyes gleam out from under his lowered beret. Im not telling you anything except that I want that goddamned ship of his here, and I want it now.
It might be a good idea, says Colonel Kassad.
The Consul looks at him.
If theres a chance to save Hoyts life, we should take it.
The Consul is in pain himself. We cant leave, he says. Cant leave now.
No, agrees Kassad. We wont use the ship to leave. But the surgery might help Hoyt. And we can wait out the storm in it.