Joe
Joe Larivee woke screaming in terror, sweat pouring from his body. He sat abruptly in bed, holding his head between his hands, reassuring himself—it was only a dream. The nightmares had become more frequent, and he seldom remembered anything about them afterward, just that cold, horrible fear. The terror itself he had no trouble identifying, it was the terror he felt seven years ago, the night the bomb exploded in his apartment complex, leaving Allison lifeless, and her blood splattered everywhere, on the floor and the walls and the ceiling, on his naked arms holding her as the light left her eyes, the horror of witnessing countless friends and comrades slaughtered before his eyes, the aftermath of two bloody wars. He had resigned himself to the nightmares.
Outside his window, the sun was about to rise on a clear, May morning, outlining Mt. Hood in orange-red haze. He took a shower to rid himself of perspiration and dressed for work. He had several appointments this morning with citizens’ committees concerned about the recent changes in the Ministry of Wellness. As the Minister’s Ombuds, he took the flack when unpopular decisions were made, but on the flip side he had extraordinary influence on whether those decisions stood or fell. It wasn’t a perfect system. After a decade of struggling with consensus decision-making, and its endless meetings, the people of Free Cascadia had finally given some of their democratic power over to the bureaucracy. But Free Cascadia, as a loose federation of city-states, held stubbornly to its libertarian-socialist ideals, and if pronouncements became too unpopular, the citizens would still toss Joe and the Minister and the whole bureaucracy out on its ear.
Joe arrived at the office early to find Melissa Monroe, Chief of Biological Research, in the break room, sipping tea and nibbling on pieces of shredded pastry.
“Joe,” she said, “I’ve been wanting to ask you something. Do you have a minute?”
“Sure, Mel. I came in a bit early this morning—not sleeping well.”
“Nightmares, again?”
Joe nodded. He had known Mel since she was a young girl, a childhood friend of his daughter, and she was one of the few people he could talk to about such personal issues. She had been through the wars with him, by his side much of the time. Of course, everyone here had been through the wars, but Mel was special.
“I’m sorry, Joe.”
“It’s okay, Mel. Really.”
He looked into Mel’s sad, dark eyes and smiled. Jessie would be her age now, a grown woman. It had been the one downside of working with Mel, being reminded of his daughter every day. He had foreseen that problem when he recommended Mel to the Department Collective, and Mel had turned out to be one of his most valuable colleagues. She had become something of a substitute daughter as well.
“Joe, are we still on for tonight, Benson High…?”
He had nearly forgotten. He felt guilty because he wanted to forget; but he had promised. He nodded, but his frown gave him away.
“Joe, this will be good for you. You need to be around people who understand. We’re not the only ones who have loved ones on Sweetland. There are millions of us, and we can support one another.”
It’s the religion crap I can’t tolerate, he wanted to say, but who was he to deny Mel her comfort. The Temple of New Life wasn’t the only thing that bothered him; after all these years, he no longer believed in Sweetland, either. With no letters or news in seventeen years, nothing had become real for him; the Jessie he knew was gone, and he was resigned to the fact that he would never see her again. What did it matter if there was a planet out there, across some vast incommunicable distance, if it was inaccessible, if he would never see his daughter again, if he had no way of knowing whether she was safe or not, alive or not?
—
Melissa Monroe discon’d from her node and gathered up her bag and jacket. Joe watched from his office window as the pretty, young, caramel-skinned woman made her way down the corridor in his direction, hoping somehow she had changed her mind, but when she arrived, he knew he had no such luck. He gave her a forced smile as she took his arm, and together they walked out into the Portland rain. The old high school gymnasium was packed when they arrived, but Mel led Joe through a side door where they could push their way to the front of the stage.
Inside, a current of apprehension charged the crowd, and people talked in intensive whispers. Joe picked up fragments, but the gist of it eluded him.
“What’s the debate?”
“A rumor’s going around about a messenger from Sweetland. We’re hoping to learn more tonight. Everyone’s nervous because the only way that could be possible is if they somehow have a d-gate online.”
“Or they’re spiriting them over from those New America d-gates in the US.”
Mel put her hand on his arm. “It’s hard, Joe, but if you could just suspend disbelief for an evening. What we experienced on Sweetland was real, damn it. Jessie is there and the Mother willing, she’s doing fine.”
For just an instant, it came back to him; those four hours he had spent with Jessie and Bridge, so long ago under that strange sky, the alien air smelling of exotic spice. He had been pushing it away for so long; and what if it was true; what if he could somehow talk to Jessie again?
“I wish it were that easy, Mel. I don’t understand why it has to be wrapped up in all this religious mysticism?”
“Because people have been burned by science. Science can’t fix everything and science can’t explain everything.”
“I can’t believe you’re attacking science, Mel.”
“Joe, I’m not attacking science. I’m attacking historical excess. I’m attacking the conceit that science can have an answer to everything. All of your quantum physics will never figure out how something can be created out of nothing. So, what is that eternal something, Joe? What is it?”
“I don’t know, Mel. I don’t know that it matters.”
“The thing is, it does matter for millions of people. They need to believe they know what that thing is. It’s called faith.”
“But, you’re a scientist, Mel. Why do you need faith?”
“Because my personal observation is no longer trustworthy. Not where this is concerned. Any d-gates are off limits to us, and those people who could give us the scientific proof are dead or silent. We’re biased observers, in any case. If I could take you to Sweetland, and show you that Jessie was sixteen years older than she was when she left, that A, B, and C has happened, that she has two beautiful little children and a real life, then would you believe Sweetland exists?”
“I don’t know, Mel. You’re right, I can’t trust what I see anymore. If I could, I wouldn’t be having these doubts. And it’s not that I doubt Sweetland exists. What it is, however, remains in question, and more importantly, it doesn’t exist for me. I would rather live with uncertainty and confusion than have faith in—no offense— some weird gnostic cosmology.”
“I understand. I don’t believe in all this popular nonsense, either. The Book of Chaos and Light is a collection of stories and myths, like The Bible or the Gnostic gospels, or any other religious text. It’s the underlying thematic principles…”
Mel trailed off as a woman in a red robe stepped up to the podium. A murmur of excitement filled the room. The woman was exceptionally tall, with blond hair and striking, chiseled features. Joe guessed she was about his own age, fifty-five or so. She tapped the microphone to verify it was on.
“The red robe…she’s a Sofia,” Mel whispered with a reverence that gave him a chill.
“Good evening,” said the woman. “I am Sister Norea. I am here this evening to bring good news, and to warn of grave danger. But first, let us have an invocation of the spirit.”
Here we go, thought Joe. He looked around uncomfortably as voices filled the hall.
Holy Spirit, Mother of Chaos, descend upon us,
Illuminate us with the True Light of the Pleroma.
Science through the back door; is that what Mel was trying to say? If so, this is what happens when science becomes religion—theatre, mystification, ritual, hierarchical order. No different from any other religion. He began to fervently wish he hadn’t come. It all seemed so wrong, and he felt a wave of embarrassment for being here—and for Mel, who was enthralled. He closed his eyes, attempting to focus on something else, anything else. He imagined Jessie, thirty years old, living in a forest community tens of millions of light years distant. Somehow he could almost see her there with her children—his grandchildren. Yes, he wanted it to be true, but no trick of his mind could make him believe it was true.
When he dreams, though, he dreams it is true. Jessie walks along a cobblestone street in a strange city, and there is a horrible sense of apprehension and loss in the air. The children. Where are the children? She looks back over her shoulder at the forest; the strange sun is setting, and it is the end of…something.
“…and now, the good news.” Sister Norea’s voice drifted through his reverie as Mel gently nudged him. “In five weeks, a Messenger will arrive from Sweetland, a young man born in the village of Meadow Springs. He will arrive in Free City and will bring important news—news so monumental, in fact, that the Temple is organizing a pilgrimage. I encourage every one of you who can to be there. We have reserved a meglev to Free City. We expect it to be booked up quickly.”
The crowd hushed for several seconds before a murmur rolled across the auditorium. Sister Norea held up her hand, signaling that she wasn’t finished. “I have told you the good news, and now I must be the bearer of a warning. It is possible that, within a few months, a war will commence for Sweetland. You have heard the rumors for years. New America Corporation is building an empire in Sweetland’s West. It’s population is now many times that of The Communities. The Sisters and Brothers of The Temple have tried our best to protect our fledgling offspring, but the enemy may soon overwhelm us. Yet there is a plan. There is hope.”
Pandemonium broke out in the hall, and Sister Norea waited until the mood of the crowd built to a seething anger.
“War,” someone shouted. “If they want war, we’ll give them war.”
“What is the plan, Sister?” someone else shouted.
“You will find your answers in Free City. The Mother be with you.”
Sister Norea stepped away from the microphone and into the tumultuous crowd.
“Meadow Springs, Joe!” Mel shouted in his ear. “It’s someone who knows Jessie.”
Joe didn’t know whether to be humored by the show or furious at the shameless manipulation. This kind of talk was bound to stir up new anger against the US and the New America Corporation. Relations were strained enough already. Grim faced, Sister Norea moved through the crowd, warding off questions, and when she moved in his direction, Joe turned deliberately away.
“Joe Larivee,” someone called, and he looked back to see Thomas Arbour, a colleague at the Ministry, standing at the Sister’s side. “Joe, I would like you to meet Sister Norea.”
No getting out of it, now. “How do you do, Sister.”
“Mr. Larivee,” said Sister Norea,”the pleasure is mine. I heard you would be here this evening. I need to speak to you.”
Joe turned to Mel, who looked away evasively. He felt betrayed. They had set him up—but why?
“Of course,” he said. “The Ministry’s ears are always available.”
“This isn’t concerning the Office of the Ombuds, Mr. Larivee. It’s a private matter.”
“Private? I don’t understand.”
“I’ll explain. Is there somewhere we can escape the crowd?”
Mel pointed out the hall door, and the three of them worked their way to the edge of the auditorium.
“Please join us, Ms. Monroe,” said Sister Norea when Mel halted at the door. “You will also be interested in what I have to say.”
The hall was empty except for a few stray individuals seeking the toilets. The din of the crowd inside was muted, but not Joe’s curiosity. “So, Sister, what is this about?”
“Mr. Larivee,” she said, “we need you and Ms. Monroe to come to Free City.”
“It’s not possible,” Joe protested. “My job…I couldn’t.”
“I believe you will find the way easier than you anticipate. Please consider it.”
“Why, Sister? I am not one of your followers. Why should I do that?”
“Because,” said Sister Norea, “the Messenger is your grandson.”
©2010–2011, Duane Poncy
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