Zach Hughes - The Stork Factor

of things inside her head, could see the damage, and his fingers flew to her head and pushed and his mind went into her brain and dislodged the splinters and all the time he was crying and cursing and people stood by gaping and making sounds and he was not even aware of them because he felt the power and pushed and probed with his mind until the splinters were pushed out and the intricate gray matter grew back into its little whorls and cells and the bone rejoined bone and the break-split closed and the blood stopped and Caster opened her eyes and said, «Luke!» Then he was leaning over her, putting his face near the gutter to vomit bile and acid, because his stomach was full of it and she was looking up at him in wonder and the people were silent, awed. Then the storm broke about him. «Did you see?» «He healed her?» «Dead if I ever saw one. Head split open.» «Healed!» «Healed!» «He healed her.» «Heal me!» A babble of voices, grunts as people pushed, fought to be near him, cried out, begged. «Help me, brother. Heal me, brother Heal! Heal! Heal!» Caster, with her hand on her head, bringing it away bloody Looking at Luke with wonder in her eyes. «I saw the landship—» «Help me, brother. Heal. Help. Help. Heal—» «You did it, Luke,» Caster was saying, as Luke sat up weakly, wiping his mouth. The realization hit Luke. He laughed through tears, his voice rising toward hysteria. «Thank you, Jesus. Thank you. Lord Oh, God, thank you.» And a new sound in the babble of the gathering crowd, an awed outrush of wind from diseased lungs, a low, awe-stricken gasp and, looking up, his face ecstatic, Luke saw his sign. An angel it was, a female angel with blazing red hair and a diaphanous, long garment which clung and revealed without being vulgar because she was sent from God, lowering, moving, looking down, descending from the cloud of smog and the crowd falling back and Luke on his knees beside Caster, his hands clasped, saying, «Thank you sweet Jesus.» And the angel, his angel, sent from God, coming lower and lower and then her feet touching and no words, just a look at Luke and a beckoning gesture. Trembling, Luke arose. She beckoned. He took two tremulous steps forward and she reached out in impatience and her hand on his arm was soft and yet like fire filled with the power of God and then Luke was crying and praying because below him he could see them, the people, and Caster, standing now, holding up her arms, her lips moving, but Luke couldn't hear as she cried out, «Luke, Luke.» And ever swifter, rising. Angel-borne, her hand on his arm. Like the time he was in the Brotherfuzz atmoflyer and seeing the city below and this time there was no atmoflyer, only a solidity under his feet and the feeling of being enclosed, and down below the Brotherfuzz vehicles moving in and before he was so high he could no longer tell one

from another, the little ants on the streets, the Brotherfuzz seizing Caster and him saying, «We've got to help her. Don't you see, we've got to help her.» But the angel was silent, looking past him, looking up, her beautiful face expressionless. «Please, please help her.» And God opened up his heavens and sent down a ship which opened for them, taking them in. CHAPTER ELEVEN Brother Kyle Murrel, President of the Republic by the grace of God and

a long wait for his father to die, stalked into Colonel Ed Baxley's study with a scowl on his face. His long robe swished with his powerful strides. His cleric's cap was low on his forehead at a somewhat rakish angle. Baxley, trim in a white uniform much like that worn by his cadets at University One, stood. «Brother President,» he acknowledged. Murrel, without

waiting for an invitation, sat in the chair facing Baxley's desk, his long legs outthrust. «You read the report?» «I read it,» Baxley said. «Then you realize the urgency involved.» «Urgency?» Baxley was fingering the thick sheaf of papers stamped TOP SECRET—EYES ONLY. «Yes, dammit,» Murrel said. «Something's going on, colonel. We've got to move before it goes any further.» «The measures you've suggested seem rather drastic to me,» Baxley said. «Drastic?» Murrel leaped to his feet and began to pace. «Drastic? Let's review the situation, colonel. We've known for years that there is a scientific underground. Yet we've never been able to find it. We keep getting vague reports, hints, smatterings of information which, when checked out, lead us nowhere. Then there is a series of events. First, the Nebulous disaster. Our last foothold in space, for what it was worth, destroyed. At first we didn't suspect. We accepted it as an accident. But then a ragged Apprentice Brother, formerly one of your students—» «For a short while, Brother,» Baxley said. He'd been briefed thoroughly on the incident. «—heals a fatal wound with some sort of instant medicine. Still we see nothing which indicates a connected conspiracy. Yesterday, however, a preacher whose description fits exactly with that of the principal in the first instant-medicine incident perpetrates another feat of instant, miraculous medicine on a woman whose head was crushed by a motor vehicle—» «A police cruiser, to be exact,» Baxley said drily. «—and then is spirited from under the very nose of the police by a woman dressed in a nightgown who came down from the sky without any apparent vehicle.» «That is the part that sounds somewhat fanciful to me,» Baxley said. «Substantiated by hundreds of witnesses, among whom were half a dozen experienced police officers,» Murrel said, still pacing. «You've not proven that it was one and the same man,» Baxley said. «No, but the coincidence is worth noting, isn't it? Two impossible feats of curing performed by a thin, lank-haired young preacher hardly seem disconnected. Moreover, if the feats were performed by two different men, this is even more indication that they have developed something of which we have no knowledge.» Murrel ran his hand under his cap, replaced it, sat down. «That's why, colonel, that the Cabinet and I feel it's time to make a move.» «But to put the entire country under martial law'?» Baxley smiled. «Isn't that overreaction?» «There is one thing that you may not know,» Murrel said, looking at Baxley through narrowed eyes. «I said that we had accepted the Nebulous accident theory.» «Yes.» Baxley said. «It was no accident, my dear colonel.» «Yes?» Baxley said. His face was expressionless. «Government scientists ran some routine checks on some of the space

debris which fell in this country. There was undeniable evidence that a fire gun had been used.» «Impossible,» Baxley said, controlling himself with a great effort. «Impossible,» Murrel said. «I agree. And yet it happened. The residual

effects of a fire gun, as you yourself well know, are duplicated by no other force known to man.» «Sir,» Baxley said, standing stiffly. «I must, of course, take this as a direct challenge to my loyalty, since I and I alone control the fire gun arsenal.» Murrel was President, but the man before him was Colonel Ed Baxley. He stood, holding out his hand. «No, colonel. No. Your loyalty is without question. Please believe me. No one in the government has even intimated that you could be at fault in any way. However, there has been a suggestion that your security procedures be reviewed.» «If the government doubts my ability to control the arsenal, then I hereby tender my resignation,» Baxley said stiffly. «Please, colonel,» Murrel said, showing his nervousness. After all, the man before him was, so to speak, the father of the Second Republic. «Please, colonel, don't say such things. No one is more respected. No one further above suspicion. But you've been busy, colonel. You've been concerned with the administration of the University, with a dozen other things. All we're asking is could it be possible that someone, some trusted subordinate perhaps, could have smuggled a fire gun out of the arsenal?» «It is not only impossible,» Baxley said, «it is patently absurd to even suggest such an idea.» «Then we have to assume that they have developed the fire gun,» Murrel said. «And that makes the matter all that more urgent. For not only have they devised a means to move through air without apparent vehicle, not only have they come up with some magical method of healing fatal injuries, they are now in possession of the weapon which has guaranteed the security of this state since the revolution.» Baxley, still standing, sighed. «So it would seem,» he said coldly. «We have drawn up a plan for the most thorough search operation of all time,» Murrel said. «We must find them. If we have to tear down every building in every city in this country—if we have to dig into the very bowels of the Earth.» «Do you plan to personally search one billion people?» «If necessary,» Murrel said. He mused, his chin in his hand. «It may not be necessary. Bystanders reported to our police that the woman who was healed in Middle City was seen walking with the man who healed her before the accident. We are now questioning her.» «With shakeshock'?» Baxley asked contemptuously. Murrel smiled. «No. We lose too many of them that way. There are, however, other methods.» «Are we going back to Inquisition methods of torture now?» Baxley asked. Murrel smiled. «I detect a touch of bitterness, colonel. No, no Inquisition. However, we have found that kindness does not make these people respond. I assure you, the woman will talk.» Later, when Murrel had gone, Baxley sat looking out the huge glass windows. Yes, he had spoken in bitterness. Lately, he was feeling more and more bitter about a lot of things. The Brothers had been in power for thirty years. He had helped them seize that power. He had helped overthrow a government which, once, gave more things to more people than any other government the Earth had known. He'd helped, had been instrumental, in fact, because the old government was failing and people were suffering. He'd helped because the Brothers, with their clean, wholesome approach, had seemed to be the solution. Men of God in power. God's mercy administered by men of the faith. The people benefiting and being made whole again, misery abolished, sickness conquered, overcrowding somehow eliminated, perhaps through reclaiming some of the vast land masses which had been made unlivable by the great Communist war. Yet, in thirty years, the situation had, in fact, become worse. There were no more people, the leveling-off aspect of severe overcrowding and lack of medical care had seen to that, but there were just as many people and they still died. The Brothers gave them, even the Fares, a new ground car every year, but they ate whole fish meal three times a day and coughed blood from seared lungs. Yes, he questioned. Yes, he was bitter. Now they were turning, all those faceless millions. Now another force was moving. He knew that there had been no fire gun developed, but, then, they wouldn't need a fire gun. If they had medicine, and the reports on the miraculous cures in the streets of Old Town and Middle City seemed to indicate that something had developed there, that would go a long way toward winning the confidence of the people. If they had some miraculous method of air transport, as indicated by the reports on the last incident in Middle City, they might, also, have a start, at least, toward a safety valve for the overcrowding. A scientist who could move through the air without apparent support might just also have the power to move through space. Baxley felt a kind of excitement. Space! There were people on his staff at the University who talked of space as the cure-all, the answer. And the government did not agree, choosing to squander the remaining wealth of the nation on ground cars and other status consumer items while the race moved in retrograde back to bare subsistence levels. He questioned the administration decision to forgo any further space research following the Nebulous disaster. But, alone in his office, looking down on the well-clipped parade ground, seeing his cadets move pridefully and quickly during a change in classes, he remembered when his first question was asked. His son, Ronnie, spared the filth of sexual knowledge, thinking that God was sending his little brother on the moon rocket, had destroyed man's last outpost in space. He didn't blame Ronnie. Ronnie had been a willful,