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37

Luther Koskela felt ill at ease in Denver's McNichols Sports Arena. He'd been more comfortable snooping the Ranch, 170 miles south. But he needed a feel for arenas and crowds as an operating environment.

A pregame hockey or basketball crowd, he told himself, would be louder. Presumably most of the waiting 15,000 or so believed in Ngunda, and were there to hear him in person. The simply interested or curious could watch and listen from their living rooms. Given the hard times, the admission wasn't all that low—two dollars for the cheap seats, and three where he sat in the second tier. Those at floor level were $10 each; $25 for the five front rows. Presumably they paid for the proximity to the speaker; he did not doubt he'd hear perfectly well from where he sat. And he had a better overall view of the arena, which gave him a better idea of how events like this were managed.

He hadn't tried to bring a gun in. He was simply scouting. The Arena Authority had manned security screening gates at the entrances, and if he'd brought a gun inside earlier in the week, it would have had to survive the inevitable pre-event shakedown, complete with dogs. And the odds of getting off an aimed shot, then getting out alive and uncaptured . . . Uh-uh!

Lute's continued interest in killing Ngunda wasn't driven by professional pride, and certainly not by religious obsession. It was guilt that drove him now, guilt for escaping the fates of his teammates. The feeling surfaced only now and then, but somewhere beneath that surface it was continuously operative. Actually it was Sarge he felt guilty about; Sarge, who'd kept his mouth shut. Sarge in Leavenworth Penitentiary, under the Anti-Terrorism Act.

Lute rationalized that being free, he could still gun down Ngunda and complete the mission, which would make things right.

He'd already learned some things. Ngunda Aran didn't use a ClearScreen, which to Koskela meant he was either reckless or trying for martyrdom. He also used a slender lectern, instead of the broad variety with veneer over steel plate, popular with politicians in these times. And Ngunda had just two bodyguards with him, walking a stride behind and to the sides. Neither sat close to him on the speakers' platform. The only people physically near him were dignitaries, identified on the program as the mayor, the lieutenant governor, a professor of ethics from Denver University, and the woman who'd sing the national anthem.

When the scoreboard clock showed 8:00 p.m., the mayor stepped to the microphone and greeted the crowd, then introduced the singer. The crowd stood, Koskela included. The organist played some introductory chords, then the singer began and the flag was raised.

Luther stood with hand over heart, thinking about neither country nor anthem. His lips moved—he might even have sung if he'd had any kind of singing voice—but his thoughts were on more important matters. At an outdoor event, he told himself, the hit should be more doable. Not easy, but doable. But there'd be no outdoor speeches till deep spring. Maybe March or April in places like Florida or the desert southwest. But sometime along the line, a spring and summer speaking schedule would be published. Then he could make specific plans.

Meanwhile he was getting a good sense of the density, positioning, and movements of ushers. They didn't carry guns, but there were radios and cans of whatever on their belts. There were also uniformed armed guards of two kinds: police and armed security people hired by the Arena Authority.

Those things would vary from city to city, but probably not by much. He wondered if there might not be police snipers at vantages in the arena, maybe in the press boxes, watching for reaction vortices in the crowd, that might signify the drawing of a smuggled gun or grenade. Snipers ready to swing their telescopic sights to any disturbance. There'd be serious drawbacks to police snipers though. If just one of them's a nut who wants to shoot the guru . . .  

Luther didn't notice the grotesque irony in the thought.

After the crowd was seated again, the mayor introduced the other dignitaries. But only when Ngunda Aran stepped to the microphone did Lute pay much attention. Even then, for the first minute or so, the words didn't really register. It was when the guru began to talk about the messiah to come that Koskela paid serious attention.

"Among Christians," Ngunda said, "the thought that the Infinite Soul will incarnate again has been around since not long after the death of Christ, nearly two thousand years ago. In the first decades after the crucifixion, most Christians expected it to happen in their lifetime. When it didn't, the anticipation cooled. It heated up markedly near the end of the first millennium, more than a thousand years ago, and again it cooled when nothing happened.

"There was much less expectation in the last decade of the second millennium, but it heated up several years into the third. Beginning with the nuclear destruction of six Middle Eastern cities during the One-Day War—a war which some Christians considered the beginning of Armageddon—and the nuclear fallout that its initiators had failed to allow for adequately.

"Now we have almost enough proclaimed messiahs to play a basketball game, though not all of them are Christian. One need not be familiar with New Testament prophecy to feel that the time is ripe for the Tao to 'intervene.'

"But what is the nature of this messiah so many hope for . . . ?"

It seemed to Luther Koskela that he could answer that one, though it wasn't an answer most of these people wanted to hear. They wanted God to send a messiah to save them, so they could go on being a pack of idiots. He'd seen a TV rerun once, of Jesus Christ Superstar, and it seemed to him the Jesus character had said it about right: "Save yourselves!" Then the poor sucker turned right around and got himself crucified.

* * *

Duke Cochran sat much nearer the speaker than Luther Koskela did, and his interest was different. He was quite familiar with Ngunda events now, and with Ngunda's philosophy. What impressed him most was that so many people, some of them very intelligent, took it seriously. Between tours he monitored the Web for reviews and comments. Every talk the man gave, of course, was on Millennium's website, along with favorable commentaries. And there were plenty of sites where he was trashed. Political cartoonists had a ball with him. Independent commentaries ranged from thoughtful, through skeptical and cynical, to acutely hostile. Most of the latter were fundamentalists and conspiracy theorists.

He wondered if some writers weren't actually just a little worried that maybe, just maybe, Ngunda was for real. That someday, with a long memory, he'd sit on a pink cloud and send his more serious attackers to eternal hellfire for sticking it to him too hard. Others, without believing in him as a messiah or a prophet, hoped that what the man taught would have a good effect on the world. At least two he'd read had said as much in writing.

The coming incarnation of the Infinite Soul! Now that Christmas was past, Ngunda's comments on a new messiah couldn't be explained away as the season. Interest had jumped when he'd first mentioned it, and it seemed obvious to Cochran that before long the guru would stake his claim. He'd have to. More and more, others were speculating about when, and his coyness would backfire if he didn't grasp the torch. Besides, any major payoff required it.

Now, on the speakers' platform, Ngunda stepped to the microphone, and Cochran gave him his attention. The subject, Ngunda stated, was the coming "next incarnation of the Infinite Soul." That was his big pitch now. Still, to Cochran, the first minute or so was prosaic, not the sort of thing to excite the guru's audience.

Then he became more specific. "This new incarnation," he said, "what some refer to as 'the Second Coming,' is very close at hand. The physical human being, the receptacle the Infinite Soul will occupy and use, is already teaching among you. Soon the Infinite Soul will descend onto that body, and the human soul which had occupied it will ascend, so to speak, to what is commonly referred to as 'heaven.'

"When that happens, that body will largely cease to preach. For the Logos—the ultimate truth as it applies to the physical plane—cannot be expressed in words, or in paintings or images or abstracts or mathematical equations, or in anything created by humans. Words cannot come close. Occasionally, great music, and the greatest figure skating and dance performances, can give a sense of it. But such transcendental performances are uncommon. Perhaps the strongest sense of it readily available to us over the centuries is experienced by watching a major display of the aurora, the northern or southern lights.

"But that will change when the Infinite Soul travels among you in a human body. Simply showing itself to you will demonstrate its incredible power and love. Then you will perceive and know more than you can grasp with your intellects, though there are those who will reject it."

Jesus Christ! thought Cochran. Talk about going out on a limb! He'll have to step up and claim it soon, and make a damned good show of it, or he'll lose all credibility. 

"And at the end of the Infinite Soul's time among you . . ." Ngunda paused, to strengthen their attention, then repeated himself. "At the end of the Infinite Soul's time among you, the Tao will also manifest itself in a geophysical event that no one—no one!—will ignore or deny: a geophysical event that began a long time ago, and is only now approaching fruition. For people to whom only physical phenomena are valid, especially painful physical phenomena, that geophysical event will carry conviction.

"But the spiritual manifestation will express itself in the physical form of a human being. Not as Jesus of Nazareth. Jesus was of and for an earlier time. But as someone of and for our time."

He's not leaving himself much wiggle room! Cochran thought. And now he's pissed off all the people who believe the real messiah has to be Jesus returned.

It occurred to Duke that Ngunda might believe what he was saying. In that case he might not be influenced by whether people liked it or not. But what about the people pumping money into Millennium: the board of directors of the Millennium Foundation? All were presidents, or board chairmen, or CEOs of wealthy corporations. Estimates of personal, pre-Depression worth ranged from $130 million to $3.7 billion. What were they thinking now, sitting in their mansions listening to this speech? Was this part of their plans? Or were they shocked? Maybe thinking Oh boy! There goes the farm! How do we cover this? 

It was then Cochran had a major realization: When Ngunda claims to be the messiah, he'll have to die shortly afterward. Because no one—not Ngunda Aran, not anyone—could act the role of messiah the way he'd described it. With some good special effects, he might get away with faking it for a few days. But no way in hell could he string it out longer than a week or two. He'd have to die, whether he wanted to or not.

* * *

When the time came for the ethicist from Denver University to question Ngunda, the professor blew his opportunity to press him with what Cochran thought of as telling questions. Instead he asked, "What might we realistically hope for as a result of such a remarkable event?"

Ngunda smiled. "The Infinite Soul will not incarnate to 'save' humankind, nor transform it into saints. Combined with the geophysical event, he will help you see more deeply into yourselves—your lives, your motives, your values. And to do so more honestly than you had before. The result will be a substantial shift in the orientation of human society as a whole, from materialism and its idols of comfort and wealth, power and security—toward tolerance and compassion." He paused and repeated. "Tolerance and compassion.

"Note that I said 'orientation.' Many will truly strive to be compassionate, many more than now. While far fewer than now will simply give it lip service, and fewer yet will scorn it.

"For the ineffable love radiating from the Infinite Soul will have a powerful effect on humankind. Even those who experience it only via television will feel it strongly. It will even touch those few isolated persons who fail even to hear of it. This, coupled with the geophysical event, will leave relatively few denying the nature of either phenomenon. Each event—the geophysical and the divine—will certify the other.

"You will still live in the physical universe, with all the problems that go with it. Greed, cruelty and pain, hatred and insanity—all will still exist. So will despair, irresponsiblity, finger pointing, and rationalization. But they will be less than we see around us now. And their expression will become less extreme, because society will change."

Cochran stared at Ngunda. Then the professor spoke again, hesitantly. "What is the nature of this, uh, 'geophysical event'?"

"The long-talked-about asteroid impact. It will not be 'the big one,' but it will be memorable."

"You said these things will happen soon. What do you mean by soon?"

"Within this year, professor, this calendar year."

* * *

When the event was over, Luther Koskela walked across the broad parking lot to his car, feeling weird. It's the guru's bullshit, he thought. And shook it off, putting his attention on what he should do next. Go to San Diego, he decided. There'd be jobs there, for someone with his professional skills, who spoke halfway decent Spanish and wasn't too squeamish.

As he started his car, he wondered if, just possibly, Carl or Axel, or both, had watched and listened to the speech on television in their prison cells. Unlikely. But if they had, Carl for sure would have had a conniption, maybe even a stroke.

Because Ngunda had come damned close to naming himself as the new messiah. When the professor had asked what good would come of a messiah, the guru had talked about "you": You will do this. You will feel that. He'd never once said we. Because he expected to be the messiah. The poor sonofabitch was crazier than Carl.

And it was all supposed to happen before the year was out. "Somebody better kill him," Lute murmured to himself, "to save him dying of embarrassment next January first."

 

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