John Shirley - A Song Called Youth

Torrence laughed. “Yeah, probably.” He’d needed this, to get his mind off the reprisals. Needed to “Dance with Mr. D.”

The autotank met them at the hut, a different critter now. Like a big, friendly, domesticated rhino, waiting for another command. Its engine heat feeling like body heat. They heard the yawing whoop of approaching sirens, coming from the North.

Bibisch came out of the hut carrying the little computer unit. Norman Hand, pale and hugging himself, came out just behind her. He was talking into a little hand-held voice recorder. Something about, “The sirens of SA police approaching—”

“They’re on the far side of the camp,” Torrence said. “We’re near the old refining plant on this side—it’s about a quarter mile south of here. I think we can hide the tank in there, but we’ll make ’em think we headed west.” He was already putting on his headset, calling for a decoy hit off to the west of camp.

Roseland listened to the sirens. Sounded like Torrence was right. They had time. Just enough. It would take the SA commanders a while to figure out what had happened. They’d figure it out, though: much of war now revolved around strategies of signal transmission, signal interference, and electronic co-optation.

They climbed onto the back of the autotank, clinging behind the turret as Bibisch gave the autotank new commands and Hand babbled into his recorder. The tank whined and moved off, rumbling to the south, full speed.

Roseland smiled. They were going to keep this autotank, hide it till it was needed. And, oh yes, it was going to be needed.

In fact, they used it again as they fled the camp. On the way out, they told it to blow up the giant TV screen.

It did. And that was a beautiful sight, too.

Jebediah dropped the videodisc into the player and turned to the small audience in the conference room. Watson, Giessen, Klaus, and a dozen lesser functionaries were seated around the table, facing the big screen. The room was white, windowless, lit brightly; it could have been any time of the day or night. It was ten p.m.

Our Jebediah, Watson thought, ought to be in bed, and not up here running the show.

He was beginning to fear the boy.

The screen flickered alive, making Watson remember the pirate transmission that had gone out to most of the functioning televisions in Paris via the unit in the refugee camp; and he remembered the stolen autotank that had shattered the giant TV screen. A lot of money down the drain.

Worse, the propaganda that had gone out on the pirate transmissions. The cheering when the resistance vermin had escaped…

The refugee camps were hotbeds of potential trouble. They had to be cleaned out. The wheat separated from the chaff, and storehoused; the chaff disposed of.

“The Reverend Crandall,” Jebediah said, “has made an announcement that will shortly be sat-transed to the entire world.” His voice reverent but confident. His uniform spotless. Remarkable poise, too, for a child. His father, Watson supposed, had drilled him in this little speech. “It is an announcement that will seem to some people to be only of scholarly interest. But other people will be very angry when they hear it. Eventually, everyone will see what it means: a change in the way we think about God and our place in God’s Plan.” He looked at them gravely, then hit the play button. “What you’re going to see is a revelation from God.”

As Crandall’s image appeared on the TV screen, Jebediah went to stand respectfully to one side.

On the screen, “Crandall” was saying that thirty years of research by Church scholars had at last come to fruition. Through archaeology, documentation study, and a dozen other scholarly means, they’d come at last to the incontrovertible conclusion: the Bible, as we know it, is not truly the Bible. “We have positive proof,” Crandall was saying.

No. Crandall wasn’t saying it. In a power-grab, Watson and Klaus had murdered the real Crandall. Only they, of those in this room, knew that they were watching a lifelike computer animation; only they knew that Crandall was dead.

Watson had no interest in listening to Crandall’s speech. He’d written it himself, he’d heard it till he was sick of it. He’d given it to Jebediah and his father, and was gratified to see the way they’d taken it to heart. At the same time, he’d been unsettled by the boy’s fanatic conviction. His grasp on what “Crandall” was saying made Watson feel he was losing control, his project somehow co-opted by the boy.

Watson looked away from Jebediah, covertly watched the others to see what their reaction would be. Redesigning Christianity was an important step in the taking of power. They needed the philosophical reins, as well as the political ones…

“Jewish conspirators,” the computer-generated Crandall was saying, “tinkered with the New Testament of the so-called King James Bible, and altered it to make it appear that Jesus was of Jewish origin. Further, they edited out those sections which confirm God’s plan for genetic purification.”

Giessen was reacting to Crandall’s revelations with a flaring of nostrils, a dilation of the eyes, a slight twitching of the hands. Watching him, Watson felt a thrill at his own power over Giessen’s mind.

“And now,” said the stunningly realistic animation of Crandall, “I have something precious to give to you. A direct quote from Jesus himself that has been lost to us for two thousand years! This quote came to us from the Damascan Scrolls, which were discovered by a team of our Church archaeologists two years ago and only recently translated. I repeat, what you are about to hear is a direct quote from Jesus Christ Himself: ‘I am the spark that lights the Flame of Purification. Let the miscegenists hide their faces from my light. Those who would interbreed besmirch the Divine Plan. Yea, verily I say unto you, those who do not recognize the Chosen Race are the whisperers of Satan, who would elevate animals to rule beside men. The Flame of Purification will burn away the tinder that is the Animal Races. Truly, the worshipers of false gods are those who would elevate animals; and those who would elevate animals are worshipers of Satan under another name. In my name, then, return them to God’s Judgment with the Flame of Purification; give them to Death who gives them to Judgment. Verily, this is my word. Write it in your hearts.’”

There were gasps in the conference room—the gasps of believers.

Watson allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. He had written those words, just as he had fabricated the Damascan Scrolls. Some would know it was a hoax, of course, and would say so, but the believers would believe anyway.

Crandall paused reverently, looking gravely out at them. “The teachings of our church are confirmed in the word of Jesus. In another passage, Jesus prophesizes of the Satan of the ‘Dog-Men’ who will be born in the southeast, in the place call Mecca… ’ This man, whom he calls ‘one of the five great Liars,’ will poison much of the world with his false doctrine. Clearly, Jesus is speaking of the man called Mohammed. His warning is clear, and his admonition to us about the worshipers of false gods, and those who would elevate animals—in other words, the lower races—to the status of men, is quite clear. Deliver them, said the Lord Jesus, to Death, so that Death may deliver them to Judgment… Our task is obvious.”

Watson glanced at Klaus. Saw the tension in the set of his jaw: Klaus was nervous about releasing the bit about Mohammed, the great Liar. “ We aren’t ready for a holy war, ” Klaus had said. “ Chances are, the Muslims won’t wait for us to carry out the ‘word of God.’ They’ll come after us. We aren’t strong enough yet. ”