The Cardinal sighs. His secretary, buzzing him with a priority call, has interrupted his afternoon nap. Again.
The Cardinal has been receiving calls from Governor Marc Edwards. The calls started when Campion had been gone over two weeks. The governor asks each time if Campion has returned, and day after day the Cardinal's answer is the same:
"No, no, he's still away on the Pope's business, I'm afraid."
And each day the governor says something like, "it's getting to be a long time..."
The Cardinal's answer is usually something like, "There's really no telling how long it will take," to which Governor Edwards normally replies, "well, it's been two weeks," then it's "three weeks," then "four."
When Edwards says, "It's been over a month," and asks, as he often does, "aren't you worried?" the Cardinal finally admits, "well, yes... a little."
This surprises the governor, and worries him.
"You're finally worried, now?"
"Well, the Pope called asking me if he was back. That makes me start to worry."
"He made it sound like it was only going to be about a week when he left. He couldn't tell me what was up."
"Hmmph. You know more than I do."
"What can we do?"
"I don't know. I don't really think we can do much of anything, except wait, and pray for him."
"I'm not catholic, Cardinal."
"Then do whatever it is that you do do, Governor. I'll be praying for him. Good day."
Marc Edwards signs off. He doesn't like the Cardinal, never has, and couldn't see why Governor McEntyre was chumming up to the guy back when. The Cardinal doesn't even get worried about Campion, one of his own men, until after a month goes by. Edwards wonders if BC is even still alive, wonders where he is out there as he looks out over the surface of the moon, past the rising Earth, into the deep carpet of stars.
BC is still alive in his closet, his cell, killing time by reading the Bible. They leave his bindings looser now, so he can exercise a little. He tries to keep some semblance of training going.
When he gets food, he eats.
He's decided he can't worry about what they're putting in the food. BC is sure they are drugging him, but not every meal. And he knows he needs to eat to keep up his health, his strength and his energy, so he eats what they give him and hopes his brain doesn't end up too freshly scrubbed.
Sometimes they turn off the light, so he sleeps. He can't really tell how long he sleeps when he does. He knows sometimes the lights are on for longer than a full day, sometimes shorter. He's not sure how much time has really passed. There are no clocks in his cell or along the route they walk him down to get to the bathrooms. There's no way to tell what time of day or night it is, or how many days have gone by.
Three weeks? Four, maybe? I don't know anymore. It's been a long time since I've been brought anywhere else but the bathroom. Even a long time since I've seen The Light.
BC sits in his cell and looks down at the Bible. He's read the book, knows it much better, now. It's helped him keep his wits as he's bided his time in the closet, given him something to do. He's had the chance to think a lot, to question... everything. His entire existence.
It's hard to maintain my vengeance of the Lord pose after reading this stuff for real. It's not even in the New Testament. That's Old Testament. Seems to me the vengeance stuff is what Jesus was trying to eliminate, trying to change. Now it's all wrong. Goddammit, why did I let them get me thinking about this shit? I gotta get out of this place.
One night as he tries to fall asleep, BC feels the room peel away from him, the walls collapse.
He sees a vast ocean spread out around him.
He floats alone upon the sea.
God damned drugs. They've dosed me again. I feel clearer this time, though, but separate from myself, floating on the water. I am detached. Is this really some drug? This doesn't feel like the drugs they've been dosing me with. Hallucination from hunger, or isolation? It feels strangely good, right somehow.
Everything seems so simple. It's all so obvious from this height, laid out in front of me. Options, potentials, possible repercussions. It seems I can grasp each of them entirely, in all their complexity. If only each of us could see with such clarity. We'd all get along. It's so obvious! We just need to love. The more we love, the more we live after the body is left behind. That's what Jesus did, that's what I'm getting from all this reading. Everybody gets him wrong, everyone ignores the inconvenient parts of the book.
I see so much, yet my eyes are closed. This ocean is in my mind, this is only my cell, I'm on the floor curled in the fetal position with my eyes scrunched closed.
WELL, THEN, OPEN YOUR EYES.
What?
YOU HEARD ME. OPEN YOUR EYES.
Oh, this is great. Now I've got audible hallucinations happening. Must be good drugs they're feeding me. I'm not hearing anything. It's just inside my head.
MAYBE. MAYBE NOT. I CAN LIVE WITH THAT. OPEN YOUR EYES.
I'm not hearing anything! La la la la la...
C'MON, CUT IT OUT. OPEN YOUR EYES.
BC opens his eyes. There is a light around him. He is in the center of the ocean, alone on the surface of the sea.
Yet somehow I can still see the lines of the cell, like two pictures superimposed, one over the other. And, wait, there's someone out there, on the water, walking this way. It looks like The Light!
YOU SEE ME AS HIM? NOT QUITE. THE OTHER IMAGERY WORKS, WALKING ON WATER AND ALL. THAT'S HAPPENED BEFORE. IT'S FUNNY HOW THE MIND WORKS, HOW IT PROCESSES THIS KIND OF EXTRASENSORY INPUT. IT'S ALL ABOUT FRAMES OF REFERENCE, REALLY. HOW DO YOU PERCEIVE THE UNPERCEIVABLE? BUT I AM NOT THAT MAN. SEE ME AS SOMEONE ELSE. HE IS FLAWED, AS ARE YOU. HE AT LEAST TRIES, THOUGH.
Man, I'm tripping hard.
THAT'S ONE WAY TO LOOK AT IT.
and you offer?
ANOTHER WAY. TO LOOK AT IT. YOU'VE OPENED A DOORWAY. YOU'VE LET ME IN. WHATEVER CHEMICALS ARE INVOLVED HAVE ONLY SERVED AS THE KEYS TO OPEN PASSAGEWAYS INSIDE YOU, TO OPEN YOU TO THE POSSIBILITIES, AND TO ME. YOU UNLOCKED THE DOOR. I MERELY WALKED THROUGH.
Okay, sure, whatever. I'm talking to myself.
THAT'S ONE WAY TO LOOK AT IT.
and now I'm repeating myself.
IT'S FOR EFFECT.
So, what, you're supposed to be who, Jesus?
IF THAT WORKS FOR YOU. IT'S A REASONABLE METAPHOR. YEAH, JESUS, BUT NOT AS PORTRAYED BY YOUR CHURCH, AS YOU'RE BEGINNING TO SEE. I DON'T RECOGNIZE THAT JESUS AT ALL.
Brainwashing is a wonderful thing. So, you're not really The Light, you're Jesus, and I'm not really tripping, I'm having some sort of visitation, right. Now you'll tell me the benefits of the cult's dental plan and why I should sign up after you've given my head a good scrubbing, right?
NO. I'M JUST HERE. YOU OPENED THE DOOR...
...yeah, I know, you just walked through it. I heard you the first time.
MAYBE I'M YOUR CONSCIENCE? OF COURSE, YOU WOULDN'T RECOGNIZE ME THEN, EITHER, NOW, WOULD YOU?
Funny.
LET'S TALK ABOUT YOUR CONSCIENCE.
Why?
DO YOU HAVE ONE?
I don't know. I don't know if I do. Actually, I don't think too much about it at all, really. Do I? You tell me.
MAYBE AN UNDERDEVELOPED ONE. HARD FOR ME TO SAY.
I've been serving a cause; hell, I've been working for you if you're Jesus.
OH, HAVE YOU, NOW?
Well, yeah. I serve the Pope.
AND THAT HELPS ME HOW?
He's your guy, isn't he?
SAYS WHO?
Says him. He does everything in your name.
YES, HE DOES, AND I FIND IT QUITE ANNOYING. FROM HIM, AND FROM EVERYONE ELSE WHO KEEPS CLAIMING TO DO THINGS FOR ME, IN MY NAME. IF I'M GOD, DO YOU THINK I NEED PEOPLE DOING STUFF FOR ME? IF I'M GOD, ‘THY WILL BE DONE,' YOU KNOW, IT'S DONE! NAH, HE'S JUST ONE MORE SHMUCK ABUSING MY NAME. I'M THINKING OF CHANGING MY NAME, YOU KNOW? MAYBE TO SOMETHING LIKE TED.
We beseech thee, Almighty Ted
?
‘JESUS' IS JUST WAY TOO USED AND ABUSED. SO MANY HAVE KILLED FOR SO LONG IN MY NAME. YOU DO THE SAME.
So sorry. Guess I'm apologizing to myself. The psychs would have a field day with this dream.
Well, then, what about The Light? Isn't he guilty, too?
SURE. WE'RE ALL GUILTY.
He's killed in your name as well.
HE'S KILLED MORE IN SELF DEFENSE THAN IN MY NAME. YOU'VE GOT BAD INFORMATION.
Or at least I want myself to think I do.
THAT'S RIGHT, THIS IS JUST A HALLUCINATION. YOU'RE TALKING TO YOURSELF, TELLING YOURSELF WHAT YOU WANT TO HEAR. WHY DO YOU DENY ME?
Because you aren't real. You're me, a figment of my imagination enhanced and animated by whatever it is they've been spiking my food with.
ARE YOU SO SURE OF THAT? WHY AM I STILL HERE?
Go away, then. This will just be a fading memory in the morning.
YOU THINK SO? DO YOU BELIEVE, BC? WHAT DO YOU BELIEVE IN? DO YOU BELIEVE IN ME?
I believe in me. That's all I can believe in. I can't waste my time and energy believing in anyone else.
HOW SAD.
Sad? Not really. Practical. Realistic.
IT'S SAD. YOU DEPRIVE YOURSELF OF SO MUCH.
I'm not missing anything. Well, I miss not being in this place.
WHAT ABOUT LOVE?
Love? I've been in love. I've been with plenty of women. But whenever I trusted one, she usually fucked me over. If that's love, I'll pass.
THAT'S NOT WHAT I MEAN. YOU KNOW IT. THAT'S NOT LOVE.
Yeah, but, you see, I thought it was at the time, each time. At least, I think I thought I was in love. Another woman, one I didn't even know that well or even get to fuck, just fucked me over and left me for dead after trying to kill me. She was cute. I had seen her around, thought she was interested. She was, but not in a good way. Love? Forget about it.
I CAN'T. IT'S KINDA MY WHOLE DEAL, THE WHOLE LOVE THING. YOU HAVEN'T EVEN COME REMOTELY CLOSE TO LOVE, TO REAL LOVE, OR TO ME, FOR THAT MATTER. YOU USED MY NAME TO SMUGGLE AND PROFITEER, THEN TO KILL. YOU KILL, YOU SAY, IN MY NAME, BUT MY NAME IS LOVE. YOU CAN'T DO THESE THINGS IN THE NAME OF LOVE.
Sorry. Didn't mean to piss you off.
YOU DIDN'T. YOU CAN'T, THOUGH SOME HAVE TRIED. I DON'T GET PISSED, I JUST GET DISAPPOINTED. AND SOME HAVE SORELY TRIED MY PATIENCE, MUCH AS YOU DO NOW. YOU DISAPPOINT ME, BC. YOU'RE A PUPPET WHO SERVES A PRETENDER. HE PULLS YOUR STRINGS. HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE SUCH A GOOD PUPPET? OR ARE YOU A PUPPY? OBEYING YOUR ORDERS, OBEYING YOUR MASTER. HE HAS YOU WELL HOUSE TRAINED, WELL LEASHED, PUPPY.
If you're Jesus, I've done it for You.
NEITHER OF US BELIEVES THAT FOR A SECOND. YOU'VE DONE IT FOR YOU AND ONLY YOU, BC. SAD, AS I SAID. LOOK WHERE YOU ARE NOW, ALONE, DRUGGED, ON THE FLOOR OF A CELL ON A DESERTED SPACE STATION RUN BY A CULT, SUFFERING FROM SOME HOLY DELUSION OR VISION OR HALLUCINATION, ON THE EDGE OF INSANITY. NO ONE KNOWS OR CARES THAT YOU'RE MISSING. OH, SURE, YOUR EMPLOYERS WILL CARE IF YOU DON'T GET THE JOB DONE, IF YOU DON'T KILL THE LIGHT, BUT THEN THEY'LL DENY THEY KNEW YOU WERE HERE, AND SEND SOMEONE ELSE TO FINISH THE JOB. THEY DON'T CARE ABOUT YOU. YOU HAVE NO FRIENDS, NO FAMILY. NO ONE LOVES YOU. NO ONE MISSES YOU. SAD.
Harsh. Maybe even close to the truth. But I don't need anybody else, you see? I don't answer to anyone else but me. I don't want anyone to miss me, care about me, or to go and get themselves killed trying to help me. You're right. This is my situation, as it is. As I want it to be.
ARE YOU TRYING TO CONVINCE YOURSELF OR ME? AND YOU'VE ALMOST MADE A FRIEND OF GOVERNOR EDWARDS, HAVEN'T YOU?
Part of the job.
RIGHT. COLD. BUT IF ALL THAT'S TRUE, WHY HAVE YOU OPENED YOURSELF TO ME?
I didn't. You're just here. I don't know why.
YOU'VE BEEN READING MY WORDS. THE DRUGS OPEN YOU TO THE PLACE INSIDE YOURSELF WHERE TIME AND SPACE CEASE TO EXIST. YOU FOUND ME THERE. HERE, ON YOUR OCEAN. YOU CALLED TO ME ACROSS THE SURFACE OF YOUR SEA, AND I CAME TO YOU. I AM HERE BECAUSE I'M ALWAYS HERE. I'M YOU. I'M A