 
### Making God

by

Stefan Petrucha

Published by Stefan Petrucha at Smashwords

Copyright 1997 Stefan Petrucha
License Notes

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**Contents**

What we've learned so Far...

1. Beth

2. Hapax

3. Calico

4. Keech

5. Mom and Dad

6. Chairman of the Bored

7. One Man's Ceiling

8. Another Man's Floor

9. How are you today?

10. Symptoms and Syllogisms

11. Can you get there from here?

12. Yet you fail to see it.

13. A Light on in the Attic

14. I am Forever

15. Aftershock

16. Okay, so maybe I'm not forever....

17. The King of Things

18. Pseudo-man

19. Guns & Nutters

20. Anxiety of Authorship

Epilogue

Acknowledgements
Well, what have we learned so far?

To understand anything deeply, one must first understand it superficially.

There is no such thing as free will. Eventually, you have to pay for everything.

_Accident_ and _plan_ are both human concepts, neither of which occurs in nature.

Feared or embraced, change is inevitable, but it by no means follows that therefore change should be embraced.

Our immortality is never thrust in our face as easily as our mortality.

Staying alive is vastly over-rated.

Life offers two main goals: the maintenance of comfort and the following of a spiritual path. Following procurement of the first, the second should be pursued immediately. In times of crises, however, the first should always be forsaken for the second.

There is always a crisis.

Nothing has to be anything.

We value those who speak like us more than those who do not.

Society is mechanical, but people are not. Therefore give to society what is society's and to yourself what is yours.

Reincarnation is only objectionable insofar as it prevents living in the present.

We must be careful of what we think – it will last forever.

If Sam were kept alive by a tube connected to Joe's heart, most would agree that Joe shouldn't have a legal obligation to keep the tube connected. However, if Joe were Sam's mother, and Sam were a fetus, you'd have problems.

Today, God doesn't make the man, but clothes do.

The illusion of a politician's power comes from equating society with government.

What is needed is an ardent belief in moderation – equal in fervor to the passions of the extremes.

If culture does not come out of us as individuals, then culture does not exist.

You only see it _when_ you believe it.

It's too beautiful for words, or there are too many words for beautiful.

Some things never die.

Some things are never born.

Some things cry, "Whee! Whee! Whee!" all the way home.

There is no choice, other than Apollo or Dionysius.

Entropy only applies to pre-determined things.

If you overestimate yourself, you'll soon learn if you're wrong. If you underestimate yourself, you'll never learn anything at all.

The choice isn't whether to live or to die, it's whether to die for nothing or to die for something.

Everything is true, eventually.

That's it! Ready? Here we go.
1. Beth

When a brand new face appeared at her office door, bright and smiling and unabashedly flirting, for a moment, Beth Mansfield felt rescued from the terrible dailiness of her existence. She wished this new man, whoever he was, whatever he was, would just shut-up and kiss her. Then he started talking, and, after a few minutes, she wished he would just shut-up.

It wasn't what he said, or even the fact that he couldn't seem to stop saying it. What bothered her was that when he spoke, he reminded her of someone else, and that meant he wasn't really new at all. It was said there were really only about 100 people in the world and Beth was beginning to feel that not only had she met them all, she also didn't really like any of them.

Not bothering to smile politely, she turned her back on the talker, hoping he would slink away with either a bruised ego or a lowered opinion of the opposite sex. Instead, he found her disdain intoxicating. Excited now, and craving to continue, if nothing else, his speech, he hungrily scanned her office, planning to verbally seize upon whatever entered his field of vision.

Seeing this, Beth's gaze also darted about. A book title peeked out from the pile of papers. She covered it with the palm of her hand. A photo of her parents was propped against some video cassettes. She turned it face down. Seeing nothing of interest on the walls, she pivoted towards the last place in the room she thought might spark a conversation: the dread computer. That was when Beth Mansfield, five year veteran of the Research Division of the Federal Bureau of Investigations, finally noticed there really was something new in her life.

A horrid, little, black thing with even stranger silver things attached to it, almost like wires, sat in a plastic holder on top of the monitor. It looked as though she might be expected to wear it on her head or over her eyes, but she couldn't be sure. The only thing she did know was that, like everything else associated with the vile machine, it would doubtless cause her pain.

Finding, at long last, his "in", the talker grinned.

"I see we've already installed your transmedia interface for _1,000 Words_."

Still staring at the sleek, insect-like body, she said nothing.

He went on.

"I'm from the computer division."

He edged closer.

" _1,000 Words_? The new program? Did you read the memos?"

Finally, she turned to him, a look of horror on her face.

The talker, thinking he'd finally gotten her attention, continued speaking.

"It's the end of an era," he said excitedly.

This time, as if to hypnotize her, his hands came into play, describing abstract shapes in the air.

"...the dawn of a new age!"

He made some semi-circles and twisted his wrists.

"A total revolution in the way we think of communication!"

"Oh goodie," Beth thought, watching his digits flex and point, "his hands talk, too."

"Hell, it'll be a revolution in the way we _think_. The program actually takes words, written or spoken, and transposes them into three dimensional animated pictograms."

Fearing that even the slightest movement on her part would engender further discussion, Beth fought to remain still. Her participation was, however, not needed.

"We've been using words for what, fifty thousand years? A decade from now, they'll be obsolete!" he said.

"Oh?" Beth said, perking at the possibility.

"Of course, there'll probably still be numbers. I really can't see getting along without them," he added, apparently a little disappointed.

She nodded in agreement, not quite knowing why.

"I saw a demo a year ago," he said dreamily. The edges of his mouth raised in a slight smile as though he were trying to recall his first kiss.

"It was just an Alpha version, but there they were, floating in the air, little moving pictures, one next to the other, like a wordless comic book. I knew what they meant, intuitively. It was like I could feel them in my head, you know, with that same kind of power a child must feel the first time they learn a word," he said.

"Get out," Beth responded.

"Excuse me?"

"I hate computers," she said, "With all the passion of my heart and soul. If it weren't for the restrictions that society has placed in my psyche, I would find the people who made them, and kill them."

"Ah," the talker answered. Then, at long last, briefly, he remained silent.

Beth was about to feel slightly bad about what she'd said when she noticed he still wasn't leaving. Instead, he awkwardly leaned over the top of her desk, glanced at the pile of files that lay there, and started reading the titles out loud.

"Koresh, Jim Jones, L. Ron Hubbard, Marshall Applewhite, early Gnostic tracts and abstracts from _The Variety of Religious Experience._ You're a cult expert? You must be getting a lot of work with the millennium coming up."

Incredulous, she said, "And you must be a socially inept computer geek."

Operating against all of Beth's expectations, the talker smiled.

"Yes, as a matter of fact I am. But, in case you hadn't noticed, we have taken over the world."

Beth stared at him.

"Heh-heh," he added.

Regrettably, she laughed.

"Ah, I got a smile. Have you ever read a book called _When Prophecy Fails_?"

"No."

"You should, I mean, it's about what you're doing. It's a study of a UFO cult."

"Please. I've read everything about Heaven's Gate that's been written."

"No. Different cult. This one is from the 1950s."

"Even so, I..." she began.

The talker raised his right hand to quiet her, then leaned in closer. He spoke softly, almost in a conspiratorial fashion.

"The book's about the dynamic of worship – why people believe what they believe, _how_ they believe. And the conclusion is, well, fascinating."

"I'm sure it is, but..."

"May I tell you the story?"

"No, you may not. I really have a lot to do."

"And you don't like me. Five minutes, I promise. You can spare five minutes to hear this."

Beth stared at him.

"A married, middle aged woman in a small town starts hearing voices in her head. The voices claim to belong to aliens and they warn her about the end of the world. She tells some friends, who tell some friends, and soon there's a small cult that believes in her aliens. Eventually, these aliens announce that on a particular date, they're going to pick up the entire flock and whisk them off to another world, while the earth, wracked by geological changes, burns. So the little cult makes a big hullabaloo about Landing Day. They quit their jobs, pack their bags and beg loved ones to join them. Then when the Great Day comes, there's no UFO, no end of the world."

"So?"

"So, what do you think happened?"

Beth frowned. "What do you mean, what do I think happened?"

"To the cult. You're a cult psychology expert. Come on, what do you think happened to the cult?"

"Their numbers dwindled and the leader became depressed until the invention of Prozac."

"Nope," the talker said triumphantly, "The little cult got bigger. The failure of the prophecy, the evidence that should have proven beyond a doubt that the whole thing was a delusion perpetrated by a well-meaning schizophrenic, only re-confirmed the faith that the believers already had and attracted more people to the belief system."

Beth leaned back in her chair and exhaled. She rapped her fingernails against the top of her desk twice, nodded to an invisible point somewhere in mid-air, then looked at the talker.

"You know, I'm probably going to hate myself for responding to you at all, computer nerd, but just yesterday I was reading about Sabbatai Zevi – a 17th century cabalist and self-proclaimed messiah. He predicted the redemption on a particular day. It never happened, but his following grew. Then he promised to depose a Sultan and lead the Jews back to the Promised Land. When he stormed into the palace, he was arrested and thrown in jail, but his following still grew. To end the cult, the Sultan ordered him to convert to Islam or die. He converted, but even so, his following grew. I never thought about it before, other than gosh, aren't people silly, but you're right, it does have to do with my work, with all these personality cults. They never offer any proof, they can't, but they still grow. Why is that? I mean the psychological mechanisms that make people vulnerable to conversion are apparent enough, but why is it, bottom line, when something becomes _more_ impossible to believe, more people believe in it?"

"Don't know. Just trying to get a date for Friday night," he said, smiling.

"What was the name?" Beth asked, intrigued.

"Ben, from the computer nerd division."

"No," she said, shaking her head, "the name of the book."

" _When Prophecy Fails_. So what about Friday?"

"What about _official_ miracles?"

"Are you implying that a date with me would be an _unofficial_ miracle?"

"No, in fact, I think my dating you would probably count as a _real_ miracle, but I was thinking of things like the visions at Fatima, where fifty thousand people gathered to see the Virgin Mary, and thousands of eye witnesses claimed to have seen the sun move. Those sightings grew geometrically, and they were ultimately recognized by the Church."

"It's a little off the subject, but, well – what about them? Mass hallucination? An externalization of an internal spiritual experience? Do you like Indian food?"

"My question is – if there are so many similarities between the "crazies" and the "legitimate" religions – what's the real difference?"

"Bloodshed? The Manson family tortured and murdered..."

"No, no, no. That's absurd. What about the Inquisition? Torquemada could make Chuck Manson blush."

"Maybe it's a question of size, of the persistence of consensus reality, or maybe there is no line between insanity and genius. I really don't know," he said.

Realizing that there was no response forthcoming to his dinner invitation, the talker glanced at his watch, "I do know I have to go back to work. It's been great chatting with you, Beth. Maybe we'll manage that dinner some time?"

"Hmm."

As the talker finally exited, Beth, her head buzzing with words, picked up a file and tried to concentrate. After a few moments, her mind drifted back to Fatima and the thousands of faithful who saw the sun dance in the sky. She wondered if she would ever see anything like that. She wondered what, deep down, if anything, she believed. Then she thought about the talker. What was his name? Bob? Glen? Did he say something about dinner?

Grabbing a pencil, she scribbled down _When Prophecy Fa_. Then, the point snapped. She sighed and leaned back in her chair, uncertain of what to do next, left with a question rattling around in what felt like an empty skull.

Why would someone, why would _anyone_ , continue to believe in something after the belief had been proven, completely, irrevocably, wrong? Why?

It just didn't make any sense.

Hapax. The talker reminded her of Hapax, her first boyfriend. The one with the funny name.
2. Hapax

My fingers, a blur in the lower peripheries of vision, cascade across the keyboard. Green light from the old screen assaults my eyes. Darkness hugs the sides of my head. My clothes are loose, the chair hard. I must be here, yet I know, as truly as I can know, that in fact I have no body at all, and, like the words I've just written and the ones I've yet to write, I am more than a million miles away.

A string of glowing green words hangs in front of me, pulsing in and out of existence so quickly it acquires the illusion of continuity. Glowing, completely stripped of substance, soundless, pencil-less, inkless, paperless, like myself, these words are just somehow, in some sense, in some strange way, _there_. Once, I thought they might live after me. Now I know, flesh or not, we are both dying, and it is only a matter of chance as to which of us will go first.

This language, the words which build our world, with which we forge our connections to ourselves and each other, will soon perish. It's bled a little every day since birth, but now, the tongue of Western Civilization, the great, grand web of metaphor over five thousand years old, is about to burst and collapse.

It is not a simple suicide. An inheritor is nipping at the dinosaur's heels. In place of the words, and at their expense, an increasingly inarticulate abundance of well-designed, streamlined, efficient, ruthless, hi-tech "pictures" are being pumped at a transfixed humanity in a massive, endless stream. It started with mass media, film, then television, now it's as personal and ubiquitous as the computer. Nothing can stop it. Except, perhaps, for me.

How much time is left? The newspapers and the magazines are already on-line. The Information Highway is open. All those words, transmitted at the speed of light, ordered at a moment's notice, received in seconds, and prepared with all the love and care of a fast-food burger – have already started to mesh and collide, the death instinct inherent in them breeding and mutating like a virus. The day is coming soon, perhaps even on or near the fabled millennium. What a laugh that would be. And what comes after that, I cannot even imagine.

I have done what I could. My Great Work is finally in place. But what if it, a madman's dream at best, fails? What then? I cannot be certain, but I believe that without words we, always teetering on the edge of some abyss even in the most fortunate times, will giddily plunge into a new Dark Age. It's not just a question of losing the noblest in us, that's the least of it. Words shape the world, give it form, order, moral substance, identity. Without that, what will it mean to be human? What will survive other than some pathetic shadow-creatures, stumbling about like roaches in the dark forest of life – happy whenever not hungry, frightened to the bone whenever a cold wind blows? What will we say to each other then? How will we say to each other?

My name is Hapax Trigenomen. I am thirty years old, unmarried, unemployed, unconnected, perhaps in some ways unrecognizable. I live in an attic above my parents' house. I seldom venture outside. It's musty up here, sweltering in the summer, freezing in the winter, and full of books and papers, but the old computer still works, and, except for the occasional headache, so do I.

For ten years I've been laboring on my Great Work. Now, at last, it's all here, every comma, every clause, every sentence, finally in place. The rest, the printing, the publishing, the enactment of the plan, it seems to me are mere details. The hard part is over.

I expected some sense of closure, some relief, at least some satisfaction. Instead, I find myself unspeakably depressed, and nagged by a quiet sense of doom. I'd like to think it was just the fear of breaking a habit – ten years is a long time to work on anything – but I know this is not the case. This sense of doom is an old one, very old, and so familiar that it seems more an aggravated deja vu than a legitimate feeling. If it could speak, it would say things like: all my wishes, actions and efforts, no matter how desperately planned and presented, no matter how sincere, are utterly meaningless. It would say that all was lost before it began. It would say: life is not gain, it is struggle and death and happiness is a fantasy conjured for children solely to keep them quiet while the adults nurse their headaches and brood. It would say there is no way to go, but down.

I beat it back for these ten long years, mostly through stubbornness. At times I could best it by calling to mind a particularly peaceful dream, then telling myself it was more real than the world I woke up to. Now I'm too weak, emptied. I know my struggle is done, and the rest is all mechanics. I have no more reason to fight it, so the sadness, like a dog, demands its day.

I could have done so many things: Led a life, gotten a job, moved away from home, laughed, loved, interacted with other human beings, perhaps even found one or two like me in some way. If people knew me, right now, they might insist that I had locked myself away up here because I was afraid to take risks. I think they would be wrong. I think I've taken the greatest risk I can imagine. I've risked my life, my time, my mental and physical health, all for the sake of a dream that even the most devout Romantic would insist was utter nonsense. I have buried myself in books and thoughts to the exclusion of all else, and now I stand at the other end of that tunnel I chose. Did I stay here for safety's sake? No. My attic has never felt safe, my head less so. And failure, as ever, is so easy to contemplate.

After all, how many great works have surfaced in the minds of men and women across the ages? How many of those made their way onto paper? How many of those were published? And how many of those never reached an audience? I don't have the numbers, but I'm sure they're not small. Still, some have done it. There are Great Works to be found if one is willing to look. Yes, but at least they had a context, a culture. Here, in the damned United States at the end of the damned 20th century, there is no culture or context to be found. I had to invent it all from scratch, work both ways out in an interminable void.

Yet, yet, yet, if it succeeds, and I think that in spite of it all it just might, my Great Work will repair what was wrong and provide what's been missing – a redefinition and revitalization of language in this modern age, a tying together of the diverse moral and social concerns. It will restore the source of the word, by bringing God back from the dead – brand new, re-born and empowered into current consciousness. It will make a new God – start a new movement that will provide a safe, sound bulwark for a healthy culture to grow on. If not, I will have wasted my life.

At worst, my Great Work will make me rich.

Does that seem petty? Perhaps, but if, in the end, the language comes and goes as it pleases, and not at the beck and call of a mind such as mine, that is barely in its body, let alone in the world, wealth is not such a bad plan B. And what would I do with the blessed time and safety that I imagine large amounts of money will bring? I'd spend the rest of my days writing things that no one will understand at all; things that scream Hapax on every page, or whatever I'm writing on when I'm screaming at that particular moment – and I will go on this way, until the end of my days, and all my work will stay buried until, perhaps, one day, it will be uncovered again by some other species, maybe, or by aliens, or a better version of humanity – and they will at long last understand how much and how deeply I love the world.

So, what will it be? Was I too late when I started or is the dream that I followed truly all it appeared to be? Hands shaking, back aching, I push the chair from the desk then lower myself onto my knees. I look at the screen once more, unable to remember what's been written on it, then I close my eyes and pray. I do not call to some abstract notion of divinity, but to something really mysterious and truly divine: the world. Out through this mind and its memories, out through this huge, dusty head, I send a plaintive plea. I ask the small attic, beg the piles of books and papers, plead to the rotting tapered walls, then implore, up and out, into the cool night air, surrounded by the stars. I pray to the city, I pray to the sea: Please, please, let this work!
3. Calico

Just where do you think you're going?

Calico put her bare feet together and stared down at them, pretending not to hear.

You listen to me when I'm talking to you.

Calico could stare at her feet forever if she wanted.

If you don't answer me this second, your father's going to take you upstairs!

Calico liked to count her toes over and over again.

Calico? Do you hear me?

Her feet felt good against the asphalt. When she pressed her soles down hard enough, it tickled. The nails were a little long and the sores bleeding just a bit, but her pretty toes twinkled up at her as she smiled. She told herself she was a pretty girl. "Look at you!" she said, "Everyone wants to stare!"

And what does the pretty little girl say to all the nice people?

"Fuck you, you stupid shit bastards."

I would walk a thousand miles just to spend an hour resting.

Pretending she didn't hear, Calico laughed and put her hands up against as much of the sky as she could see between the buildings. Then she sang her morning song:

Tiny little buttercup

Dancing like a whore

Watch the horses galloping

In and out your door

When she was finished, someone stopped and stared at her. A hand disappeared into a pocket, then returned with a few bills.

"Fucking cunt!" Calico howled.

She lunged for the bills. She smiled again when she got them and was about to say "Thank-you, pretty please" but the someone went away.

Sitting on the back of a turtle, all I can see is the ocean, but I know the turtle is there.

A man from the alley shuffled towards her, muttering about Jesus and something bad he had done to his wife. The look in his eyes made Calico afraid. When he was close enough, she pushed him as hard as she could. He felt a lot lighter than he looked – he was all old clothes and bone.

With a heavy sigh, his wrinkled face squished against the brick wall. He didn't even slide down to the floor after that, the way Calico expected. He just stayed there, against the wall. Wetness filled his eyes, then dribbled down the gray-stubble that dotted his cheeks and chin.

_Under the ocean I have no body, and it's perfectly safe to cry_.

Satisfied that he wasn't going to come after her again, Calico returned to the day, where there was nothing to be afraid of or unhappy about. Calico was a good girl and the world was always hugging her. When it did, she felt a big, long line stretch up from the center of the earth, into her tickly feet, up her legs, through her cervix, up her spine, through the top of her head, into the blue-blue sky and up and up and up and up, forever and ever. It felt so good, Calico smiled and started to pee.

Even the tears dry out in the ocean.

Oh, her body could be in better shape. There were scabs on her hands and head and feet, and a really big one on her side, from when she had been stabbed – but they were always healing, and that must mean she was always getting better.

Why can't I remember what it was that I wanted?

How old was Calico? 10? 28? 69? It didn't matter. You are as old as you feel, and she felt like a newborn babe. The comfort of darkness was with her and inside her head there were so many voices speaking all at once that they sounded like rushing water. It was just like the window of the television store, the one right behind her, with all the pictures of all the mouths moving and moving but the sound so low you could never understand what they were saying.

A nice lady held a quarter out to her.

"Fuck you shit die bastard!" Calico screeched.

The nice lady went away. She didn't even give her the quarter. Calico furrowed her brow.

Oh, Calico, haven't you guessed? The world doesn't care how much you cry, it only cares how well you cry. You'll have to do better than that.

She was about to walk to the grocery and beg some food when the television store caught her attention. Picture, picture, picture. Her gaze danced from face to face, faster and faster and as she strained to hear. All at once, her eyes rolled up into her head and her hands shivered, even though she wasn't cold. One of the pictures, had gotten into her spine and now all she could do was go along for the ride.

I only want the only thing I ever want. I want the world to begin again.

Calico felt her body pulled back by the shoulders. She spit up a little as she climbed on top of a garbage can. Then, she braced her hands against the glass window that kept all those faces at bay. Some people stopped and stared. Some even realized she was talking, but she spoke so quickly and so softly they couldn't understand what she was saying.

And Calico said, as fast as she could:

"When I die the ocean will take my flesh and it will get sucked up into the clouds and rained down on the earth and eaten by the corn and the cows and the babes until the earth burns and we are all made into stars but not my bones my bones will stay on the bottom for the mermaids to find and they'll take them and make flutes from my legs and arms and chimes from my ribs and a drum from my skull and they will play and play and the music will be so beautiful the angels will laugh and weep."

By the end no one was listening, everyone had walked on. Calico's head hurt and she wanted to get down from the garbage can, but she didn't know how.

How could you? How could you? How could you let him fall?

She shook her head back and forth, biting her upper lip.

"Just look at me, okay? Just watch."
4. Keech

Having maintained his erection for a full six hours, Albert Keech removed the electronic device from his groin and finally allowed the tired girl to leave. Alone in the dark, he lay back and felt his body float above the lazily rolling water that sloshed in the confines of the mattress.

"Light," he said from the darkness, and there was light.

With the effortless effort of a Zen master, Albert Keech stood and walked across the room. Reaching a console, he pushed a shiny, silver disk into a black slot. At the press of the soft metal button above it, an unquestioning, yellow light came on, indicating that once again, his will had been accomplished. A steady, gentle, manufactured rush of ocean filled the room, and it was good. With a little smile, Keech stared at the single word printed above the button. It said, "POWER."

Barely out of breath, Keech admired himself in a full length mirror. Beads of perspiration trickled down his forehead. A few drops clung to the dark, bushy hair on his chest. He was gorgeous. At fifty-five he looked thirty, at his peak physically and mentally.

"I will never die," he thought.

There was little reason to suspect he would. The best doctors cared for him. A cryogenic capsule waited in the basement. All his vital organs were being cloned. With the advances science and medicine were making every day, advances that his investments were helping them make, anything was possible. Besides, Keech knew, deep down, that if he really wanted to, he could simply will himself to live forever. Sheer determination had, after all, built the Company, the nation, even the universe – from nothing.

Michael could never understand that, hard as Keech tried to explain. The boy thought things were meant to die, or supposed to die, as if there were some sort of dharma, fate, karma or god that operated outside of human will. Sometimes, Keech suspected that beautiful, curly-haired Michael didn't _want_ to understand. Were Keech weaker, he might sympathize. To be alone and responsible for the whole of one's life is a terrifying thing, especially for the naïve or idealistic. Michael, Michael, Michael. Strong in his ignorance, stubborn in his heart. Keech shook his head, as if to dislodge Michael from his mind. As he did, bits of sweat flew from him in powerful arcs, only to vanish in the sounds of the sea.

His heart slowing to normal, he looked out of the huge picture window hoping to catch a glimpse of the homeless tart that sometimes danced outside. His brownstone was second in from the corner, affording him an excellent view of the main avenue where she made her home. Twice now, three policemen had dragged her away from there, naked and screaming. No such luck today, though.

All he saw was a world full of patchwork people being led by their little lives. A little choice here, which friends, which college, which major, a little choice there, which mate, which job, which insurance policy, and it all added up to nothing. Still, it was dangerous to underestimate them when they acted en masse. It was, after all, a mob of little patch-work creatures that had taken the Company from him, albeit temporarily. As the sea caressed his head, he imagined wave upon wave of magnificent ocean filling the block, cleaning it, cleansing it, drowning them all, leaving Keech alone at last to start the world again.

The Company never should have gotten involved in politics. That was the problem. Keech always thought it was ill advised, but the others were so giddy.

"We can change the course of history!" they said.

Of course they could! They had the skills and the resources, but Keech knew, he always knew, that real power didn't lie with politicians. They were puppets at best. There was a deeper row to hoe. What it was exactly, he could not name, where it was, he could only sense, but he had spent the last few years, since the Company had disbanded, just thinking about it. Given time, even tied to a burning lake, or frozen in the center of the world, Albert Keech would find what he was looking for.

Ah, there she was! Right next to the discount electronics store, lit by the bluish light of a dozen television screens – a true star. Keech leaned closer, pressing his hands against the glass. Even from here, he could tell her dress was torn in all the right places. Shameless, young and chaotic, she was writhing, stopping only occasionally to curse at whoever stared. Within a night or two, he was sure, he could cure her of whatever ailed. Keech smiled, imagining what he might do with her.

The smile remained for a time, but the pleasure suddenly drained. Unbidden, another face had appeared in his mind: his wife's. He hadn't thought about her in ages. Perhaps the tart reminded him of her. Perhaps it was just the thought of perfect sex. They'd coupled many times, many ways, for many hours, and often it was perfect. They'd even made love once, and once was more than enough for Keech. How odd. That single moment created Michael.

Now, she was mad as a hatter, shattered as the nubile child that undulated beneath his window. He had no sadness for her, no pity. He didn't want her back. He didn't need her back.

As for Michael, Keech once thought he'd seen something of himself in those wide eyes, but he was wrong. He was all but convinced the boy died just to spite him. If Keech were weaker, he wouldn't blame him. It must be difficult to be a piece of flesh caught up in such a well-oiled machine. Perhaps Michael thought his death was inevitable. If not spite, a self-fulfilling prophecy, then.

After college, Michael joined the Company. In less than a year he learned more than he could handle. Keech saw the change; the sullen expressions, the hesitation in his speech. When Michael started gathering the necessary information to sell them out, to the press, to the government, to the Securities and Exchange Commission, Keech knew all about it, and Michael knew he knew.

So, they went climbing together in Alaska, near Mt. Saint Elias, just the two of them, father and son, scaling the icy peaks, mastering the wildest heights of nature as they'd done a dozen, frozen, joyless times before. Usually there was forced conversation. This time, they barely spoke. There was no need. For his part, Keech had planned the trip as Michael's final lesson.

In a sad, little, patchwork way the boy had come of age the moment he tried to betray his father, but that wasn't good enough for Albert Keech. There was to be no more skulking around. Now that Michael had become a man, he would have to face his father as a man, whether or not he understood what that meant.

Keech hadn't planned the particulars. Oh, he may have sensed them, guessed them, but he didn't plan them. Michael slipped all on his own. Before he'd even turned in response to Michael's shout, the beautiful boy, no, the beautiful man, was hanging precariously by his hands, above an infinite expanse of snow.

"Don't look down, Michael," Keech cautioned.

Michael, breathing hard and fast, pulled his gaze away from the drop and turned to face his father. Their eyes locked, and for the first time, understanding passed between them. Albert Keech's hand glided out towards his son, but the hand, the father hand, the teacher hand, the hand that had, on occasion, been there to catch the boy when he fell, was intentionally short, just a few inches. It was only a few inches, but it was an obvious few inches, in fact, it was _the_ few inches. Keech wasn't reaching as far as he could. He would not reach as far as he could. Michael looked at the hand, less than a foot away, trying to gauge if he could grab it, trying to decide if he should.

"Remember what I've taught you. It's up to you. All up to you. Michael, remember what I told you. It's all an act of will."

Keech wondered, would he finally get it? Did he understand? Had he learned the only lesson his father had to give, that he could survive, easily, that he could thrive, readily, if he relied only on himself, if he just didn't look outside himself for help? He had all the pieces, and the perfect teacher. Michael knew how easy everything would be for his father, for the Company, if there was just a small slip. There was an outcropping in the other direction, he could reach for that instead.

Michael, you want to destroy the company, and I have to watch out for myself.

Keech wanted Michael to see that, he really did.

_Don't take my hand, Michael, it's a trick_.

But either Michael didn't understand or Michael wanted to die. Youth was over. There comes a time when the nestling doesn't find the parent's back to land on anymore, when it has to fly for itself.

And that's exactly what Michael did. He flew. Silent, Keech watched the beautiful boy sail into the air, against the ice, against the white snow, getting smaller and smaller. After a time, he was so small he reminded Keech of when he was a baby and he could hold him in the palms of his hands. Finally, Michael became so small he just vanished, and Keech became so large he felt as though his head, so full of so many worlds, would burst.

Days would pass before Keech realized the full import of that moment. The papers, the files, the evidence that Michael had gathered had already been sent. The charges were already being filed. The little patchwork men, like dogs, would have their day. Michael didn't have to die at all, if only he'd told Keech. Spite. It must have been spite.

Years later, back in the brownstone, hands pressed against the glass, Keech watched the mad dancer sadly perform. Now what? What next? What was there left for him to do? Tied to a burning lake or frozen in the center of the world, Albert Keech was sure he would think of something.
5. Mom and Dad

"WHAT IS THIS?"

Hapax fell without even knowing it. Violent shadows, creatures of the dark tore at him, seeking his soul with their claws. As they shook him into the world, his heart skipped a beat. He'd been dreaming when his parents woke him.

"What is this?" his father repeated.

Having no idea what "this" was, Hapax propped himself up on his elbows to see. A smell of sweat mixed with vodka assaulted his nostrils.

"Thank God," he thought. When they were sober, sometimes they made sense, and it was depressing to think there still might be human beings somewhere in there under all those habits.

His relief was only temporary, however. Turning his head, he saw his drunken mother standing next to his computer. She had turned it on its end. All manner of cables, holes and frail wires were exposed. Seeing his poor system, the center of his escape plan, as helpless as a giant turtle rolled on its back, Hapax scrambled out of bed and leapt to his feet.

"Get away from the computer!" he screamed.

His mother swayed to and fro, an overburdened ship listing in a storm. The ice in her glass made a chinking sound as she staggered slightly forward in an effort to register surprise.

"You giving me orders now, Happy? Since when?" she drawled.

"Mom, please, get away from the computer."

"You got things a little backwards, Hapax. You ain't giving me orders," she said, pouring her drink into the back of the helpless device. There was a brief collection of sparks followed by a sickening hiss. The system fan stopped whirring. The screen went dead.

"Okay, you little shit" his father said, spitting the S's as he spoke, "Now tell me what this is."

On his feet now, Hapax saw "this" quite clearly. A dog-eared, partly torn copy of the Great Work was warped in his father's fat, clenched fist.

"Thirty year old man," his father screeched in disgust, "Doesn't work! Doesn't have friends! Doesn't go out! Instead he stays up here typing this... this... I'm going to ask you one more time, what _is_ this?"

"A book."

"A book? A book. Do you know what the bible says?"

"Which translation?"

The back of his father's free hand slammed into Hapax' face, sending him sprawling back to the mattress. Blood dripped from his mouth. One of his teeth felt loose.

"You little shit! You think you can piss on everything. You piss on yourself. You piss on me! Now you piss on God."

Hapax fought the pain and tried to concentrate on strategy. What if they found the other copy? What if they had the disks?

"I'm not pissing on anything," he gurgled, afraid the blood in his mouth might make him sound as though he were mocking their drunken slurs.

His father forced the Great Work into the bruised side of Hapax' face. Hapax thought he would pass out. It was getting hard to focus.

"This is piss!" his father screamed.

"Why?" his mother sobbed, shaking, "Why did you write it?"

She took another sip to steady herself.

"Answer your mother!" his father said, prodding him again.

Foolishly thinking he might be fast enough, Hapax made a lunge for the book, but missed. Two thick, powerful hands grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him close, closer than son had been to father in years. Hapax was so close he saw a vein on his father's temple throb. He could the red lines in father's glazed brown eyes.

"We found the other copy. Trash took it away this morning. It's long gone," his father whispered, "And we've got those discuit things, too, right here."

He pointed towards a little pile of floppies on the desk. Hapax' knees went weak. With a pathetic little whimper he went down to the floor.

"Why did you write it?"

"To make money."

"To cheat people? To take weak people from God?"

"No."

With the theatrical flair of a mad stage magician, his father tossed the Great Work into a trash can. It was followed by the diskettes and a healthy amount of kerosene. His mother, acting as assistant, held up a pack of matches for her son to see. Hapax made a weak movement towards her, but his father blocked the way.

"Come on," his father said, "Do something, you little shit. Try to do something!"

"It's for your own good," his mother said.

Not knowing what else to do, Hapax started screaming. His voice leapt an octave, but he kept shouting. He didn't make any words, he just screamed. For a while it seemed that screaming was all Hapax would ever do again.

"Lower your voice," his mother said, reprimanding him for what would be the last time.

Silently, Hapax straightened himself, wiped some of the blood from his mouth and stared at both of his parents. His father looked down, his mother, away.

"Okay. I'll tell you why," Hapax said softly, "You won't understand, but I'll tell you anyway. I wrote it because of something that happened to me about ten years ago. It was one of those night's dad was so drunk he couldn't hold his head all the way up, and he sat in the kitchen screaming about how the Jews fucked everything up. Then you chimed in, Ma, and said it was the Blacks or the Hispanics, because they never worked. Then you screamed at each other about how neither of you knew what you were talking about. Typical night at home."

"So, I crawled up here to the attic and shut the door. All of a sudden, I couldn't hear you at all. It was as though you were gone. It was quiet. So I stretched out on the floor and stared at the ceiling. After a while, I guess I must have fallen asleep, because I had a dream. I was still on the floor, right here, but in the dream, I had a book, a nice, clean, new book. Just holding it made me feel good, so I opened it up and started reading. With every word I read, I felt better and better. It was as though a veil was being lifted from my eyes. I started skipping around from chapter to chapter, excited, reading a bit here and there, and then I realized why this book was so special. See, it explained _everything_ ; good, evil, the spirit, the body, the nature of god and the universe, everything. Anything anyone would ever need to know was in that book. It was even illustrated. And, you know what? My name was on the cover. _I_ had written it, or at least it had somehow come out of me. Ever since I woke up, all I've been trying to do, all I've wanted to do, was to make that moment real. That's why I wrote that book. You're the only ones I've told. You're the only ones I will ever tell. Please don't destroy it."

"You think this book has all the answers?" his father asked, eyes glowing.

"No, that's not what I said. It was a dream."

"The devil's dream, Happy," his mother said, "The devil lived inside your head. He wouldn't let you out. Now we'll free you, my baby."

Resting her drink on the dead computer, she struck a match and tossed it into the basket. The remaining copies of the Great Work burst into flames.

Hapax was staring at the flames when he felt his body start to move towards them. His father barred the way. Hapax saw his hands reach in front of him. He felt his fingers wrap around his father's throat, then tense and squeeze. His father tried to struggle, but Hapax held tight.

Without warning, Hapax felt a dull thud at the back of his head. All of a sudden, his fingers relaxed and his hands were letting go. He was falling, wondering if perhaps, all along, this house, this attic, had been the dream, and his one moment with the book had been the only reality he would ever know. Dream or not, the last thing he saw was his mother holding a shovel, getting ready to swing again.

*

Don't sit there! You don't know where it's been!

Wetness welled in Calico's eyes.

Promise me you'll never tell! Promise!

Tiny pools overflowed. Her mouth crinkled at the corners, twitching.

It hasn't been so bad, has it? We loved you, didn't we?

She didn't want to. She tried to stop herself. She couldn't help it.

_Calico, pick up the pages that fell from the trash_.

Falling to her dirty, naked knees, Calico whimpered, then started to howl, not even knowing why. Salty water streamed down her face, stinging her scratches. Crying completely, she gently lowered her hands on either side of the pile of printed pages. The first white sheet was all torn and soiled. The rest were wet and muddy. She scooped them up, held them tight with both arms and wailed. It could have been a baby she held. It could have been herself. No one even stopped to stare.

It's all right, my darling, open your eyes.

For the longest time, she wouldn't. She just bobbed slowly back and forth, eyes shut tight, but when she finally did, she saw it wasn't so bad. The title had a word missing, but maybe someone could fix that, and the rest of the pages were pretty clear. These were the first words she'd read in the longest time. They were big and kind of silly, but they came easily to her tongue. The first few sentences tickled her head so much it made her laugh. It wasn't bad, she thought as she stopped crying and started smiling. In fact, it was very, very good.

Some people stopped to look at her, which made her smile all the more. Excited, she stood up on a garbage can and read aloud in her clearest, strongest, most important voice. The more she read, the more they listened. Oh, a few left, but a few more stayed. The more people listened, the happier she was, until finally, she was so happy that all the voices in her head quieted down, except for the one that seemed to like her the most, and it said:

What a smart baby! You know all the words!

*

On the way home from his morning jog, Albert Keech noticed a small crowd by the alley. His sneakered feet padding on the pavement in perfect synchronization, he sped up, rejuvenated by the thought that the tart might be naked again. As he came closer, he realized they weren't looking, they were listening. A musician? No. It was a voice, a little girl's voice, sweet, innocent and melodic, saying something about god and the nature of the human psyche. It was an odd, but compelling dissonance; high minded pseudo-intellectual phrases on a too-young tongue.

When the crowd shifted, Keech saw his tart. She was standing on a garbage can, reading. The girlish voice was _hers_. It was all he could do to keep from laughing. For a moment, he didn't even think about sex.

Instead, he tried to absorb what she was saying, rolling it around in his head the way a connoisseur might mull the first sip of a rare wine. The experience was all but destroyed when a drunken street man, smelling of piss and decay, touched Keech on the shoulder.

"Excuse me, do you have spare change?"

Keech turned to him.

"Why on earth would I give you money?" Keech asked.

"So I can eat, stay alive."

Keech's eyes narrowed.

"Why would I want to keep you alive? If all the poor, disgusting people like you were dead, no one would be poor and disgusting anymore," Keech said.

The beggar misinterpreted.

"You want to _kill_ me?"

He took a sad swing at Keech. Keech grabbed the beggar's shaking hand and held it motionless.

"Idiot," Keech said, "Did I _say_ I wanted to kill you? And even if I did, does that mean I _would_ kill you, here on a crowded street? Can't you even distinguish between reality and some words?"

The beggar stared at him, confused and frightened. Keech was about to do something rash when he caught a glimpse of the electronics store, its window full of televisions. All of them flashed the bright red words, "This is it!" in reference to some soft drink.

Standing there, the beggar's vibrating hand locked in his own, the tart's girlish voice singing in his ears, Keech had an epiphany. He thought about the untold score of images that danced through the heads of millions as they sipped their sodas. He wondered how many, if only for a second, remembering this gaudy commercial on some hidden level, really thought that the soda was "it." He looked at the crowd listening to the tart, then back at the frightened bum. A grin played across his face as he said, "Well then, maybe _no one_ can distinguish between words and reality."

He decided not to kill the beggar. Instead, he took the feeble, shaking hand and deftly broke one of the bones in it, the one he knew would hurt the most. The beggar, whimpering, slouched off into the shadows. Keech turned back to Calico and listened.

After a few more minutes, she clambered down from her perch on the garbage bin, curtsied and said, "Thank-you, pretty please."

The listeners stood quietly for a few moments, all lost in thought. A few tossed money. Most wandered back to their day. Soon, only Keech remained, watching as she scooped up the coins.

"No, no, no, my dear. Thank- _you_ , pretty please," he whispered.

He wondered how he could get her up to his apartment without being seen.

*

At first Beth was worried that she'd done something wrong, but when she saw the satisfied smile on her director's face, she felt as though she'd won a lottery.

"Your report was excellent, Beth."

"Thank you, sir."

"You keep doing work like this you'll be promoted to a field position in no time. Is that something that interests you?"

"I hadn't really thought about it, but yes, I guess so."

"Doing related material, of course, interviews, follow-ups. This book you quote a lot, what was the name of it?"

" _When Prophecy Fails_."

"Yes. A gold mine. Certainly you brought a lot of your own theories to this, but...wherever did you find it?"

She was going to mention the name of the computer nerd, the one who told her about the book, but she couldn't for the life of her remember it. Rather than looking stupid, she just said:

"It was...something I'd known about for some time, sir."

She would make it up to him, somehow, later.
6. Chairman of the Bored

Molloy: Bright-eyed, bearded, red-haired, deep voiced, giant. Fat now. Whispers. Hand shakes when wiping thinning hair. A juggernaut? Direct merchandising may cheer him.

Bensen: Long, lean, spider. Public Relations maestro. Makes stars, presidents and kings. Center of infinite web. Spent last year at parties, keeping contacts, never staying, never home. Vagabond. Drug dependent? Weakest link? Hides it well.

Mannon: Short, sleeping god. Too rich to be considered a single person. Vast Phoenix folded into its own wings for protection. Not to be awakened until the end of world.

Bud Bean: If world did end would wait for new one, hop on without missing beat. Clump of white in center of blonde. No other discernible change. Switch in back of head, off. Must turn on. Right hand. Understands me. Will listen.

Michael: Missing. Believed dead.

How can I assure them I won't kill them all?

*

"We are the finest minds in the world," Keech said, "There is nothing we can't do."

"Tell that to the Securities and Exchange Commission," Molloy whispered. Nervous laughter made its way around the table. Keech smiled graciously.

How different they were. How changed. No longer the young, virile masters of all time and space, an undeniable tiredness filled their eyes. Keech suspected they weren't even real anymore, except perhaps as facets of himself. Still, even if they were only symbols from his psyche, they were his symbols.

"I will not have us dissolve into nothing," Keech said.

Smiling, he strolled behind Molloy's chair, patted him on his recently acquired bald spot and solemnly intoned, "The foregoing generations beheld God and nature face to face, we through their eyes. Why should not we also enjoy an original relation to the universe?"

"Commander Keech is quoting Emerson," Bean acknowledged, "trouble."

"Guilt and fear, guilt and fear. Living gods to some. Shadows to us. They are our tools, nothing more. Reality did not move against us. The fact that we were caught is nothing more than an inconvenient coincidence. Worlds rise and fall everyday based on coincidence. Men rise and fall based on which coincidences they are able to recognize," Keech said, raising a hand, "May I present you all with another?"

The lights dimmed. On a screen behind Keech a photo of Calico appeared. She was dressed in rags, standing on an urban street, her bruised arms outstretched. Her eyes were closed, her head turned towards the sky, her mouth opened wide.

Bud Bean's voice, unusually defiant, broke the darkness, "First question, oh, my lord and master, Keech, and unless I get the right answer, I'm walking out of here."

"All right," Keech sighed, "What is it?"

"Have you touched her, sir?"

"No," Keech answered, "and I promise I will not touch her for as long as this project is active."

"Continue, then, oh wondrous one."

Keech, a shadow silhouetted by the projector beam, did, "Her name is Calico. Late twenties, schizophrenic, delusional. Tormented for years by inner voices, she's been barely able to feed herself, much less complete a thought or compose a coherent sentence. Nevertheless, as of last week, this bag lady was being quoted all over the city; in homes, coffee houses, galleries, board rooms and heaven knows where else."

Mannon, curious, but not quite willing to show it, muttered, "So what's she saying?"

The lights came on.

Keech reached into a box by his feet, "My friends, let me show you something that will make you all feel young."

With a lusty thud, fresh photocopies of the Great Work landed on the table, only now, they were called, "The Great Word." With the first page half-torn, Keech was forced to improvise. Bud Bean grabbed the top copy, the rest were passed around.

"Where it came from, I do not know. God, if you believe Calico. Doubtless she found it in the street. At first I was afraid a messenger dropped it en route to some agent or publisher, but I checked, and no one's heard of it," Keech explained.

"And if the author re-surfaces?" Mannon asked.

"You either buy him," Keech smiled, "Or I kill him."

They laughed. They actually laughed. Maybe, Keech thought, he didn't have to assure them of anything.

Bud Bean flipped through the pages, scanning a line here and there, pausing to read a paragraph that caught his eye. He was puzzled, trying to understand. Had his master, Keech finally gone off the deep end? Not possible. Then, awareness finally burst upon him. His eyes lit up. His mouth twisted into a grin.

"You beautiful madman," Bean said, "We're going to create a religion, aren't we?"

Keech bowed.

"Well then, why not?," Bensen said, rapping his long lean fingers against the table, "In the old days all it took was a few charismatic prophets. We could hire dozens."

Mannon rolled forward in his chair, "Suppose we can. There is also the question, and forgive me for being the one to ask it, of why?"

Keech took his seat once more and looked Mannon in the eye, "Because we can, that's why. Don't fool yourself into thinking we work for money. We've all been filthy rich for years. Influence? Fame? We've seen them come and go. Those games are old. We've mastered them, played them out. The time has come for us to invent a new one. What I am proposing, gentlemen, is that we become the cornerstone of a new cultural movement, that we cultivate, manipulate and dominate a new way of life for the peoples of the earth. It's been said that if there were no God, man would have to invent one. Well, I submit that we make one. In the age of stone they built pyramids. This is the Age of Information. Words and images are our stones. Let's use them to build a system of thought that will last just as long."

"Hallelujah!" Molloy exclaimed.

"Keech be praised!" Bud Bean said, grimacing.

"Well, as long as we're talking about systems of thought," Mannon interjected, "just what does this "Great Word" say?"

"I'll leave you to discover its intricacies on your own," Keech said, "but briefly, it suggests that what we think of as God, rather than some external, eternal, immutable, omnipresent, omnipotent being, is, in fact, one of a series of meta-subconscious templates that sit between ourselves and the world, acting as a kind of filter for reality. The book calls these filters Aeons."

"Sounds more like a neurosis than an object of worship, your highness," Bensen said.

"In a way. There are small Aeons, some only a few years old, that are probably just neuroses. But there are also big Aeons, Aeons that exist in millions of individual minds simultaneously, mystically retaining their character, cohesion and control. The God of our culture is a particularly large Aeon, a being that exists primarily as a psychic pattern, with all of us acting as His individual cells," Keech said.

"Don't like it. Smacks of conspiracy. Sounds like we're all slaves to this Aeon thing," Mannon grumbled.

"It's closer to the Hindu notion of _dharma_ – it doesn't rule us, it _is_ us, and we're it. Depending on the type of Aeon you're culturally assigned, it can be a pleasant or unpleasant experience. According to the book, most of Western Man has been stuck with our particular, dead-end, Aeon for about 2500 years. It insists on a male dominated spirit/body split, and seems intent on promising the end of the world. There's no easy escape. He's embedded in the language itself, so we're all indoctrinated the moment we acquire speech. Each and every one of us, atheist and believer alike, is forced to live out variations of this Aeon's story, adopting its nuances and its limitations. The book insists that the time has come to change Aeons. Or should I say, the time is nigh," Keech said, his eyes narrowing devilishly.

"Wait a minute," Molloy interjected, "We're salesman, PR people, what do you want us to sell? That intellectual drivel you just rattled off? What can we position in a market? A book? Audio cassettes of a bag woman? You don't need us for any of that!"

Keech shook his head, "I'm not talking about just a book, or a few recordings, I'm talking about inventing and disseminating a way of life. I want converts, true believers, I want priests and priestesses, I want a Mystery Cult with a hierarchy, clear, segregated steps from Initiate to Master, lush rituals, meaningful symbolism. I want a complete religion, founded by the God of today, that speaks to the people of today."

"Yadda-yadda-yadda. You miss my point," Molloy continued, "Sure, maybe you and six guys from Yale know what this book means, but we're talking about a mass audience here. The people on the street aren't going to have the slightest idea what the hell you're talking about."

"You're wrong. Calico proves that. She has no idea what she's reading, her listeners have no idea what they're hearing, but she speaks it, and they repeat it. Secondly, this brilliant book, with its manifold arcane references, already provides us with a nascent hierarchy. If one out of a hundred gets a particular reference, he or she will tell their friends. The friends, seeing there's something more to it, will pay more attention to the book! That's one of the reasons this is such a hot topic. Everyone's having a field day interpreting it!" Keech said.

"Besides," Bensen said, warming, "we can publish books explaining the book."

Keech turned his head, delighted, "Yes, that's it! We should publish books explaining the book, lots of them, but we have to be careful that they all contradict each other."

"Am I the only one this sounds crazy to?" Molloy asked, "I mean, are you on any medication we should know about, Keech? Are you all right?"

"Of course he's all right. He's more than all right. He's a damn prophet," Bean said, tapping a pencil on his pad with nervous excitement, "Contradictions are crucial to religious conviction. They disable the reasoning mind and speak to the heart. 'He who is not with me, is against me,' Matthew 12:30. 'Anyone who is not against us, is for us,' Mark 9:40.' It works, it's easy, and it's fun."

"Since when do you read the Bible?" Mannon asked, raising an eyebrow. Bean shrugged and started tapping faster.

Molloy rubbed his beard, "So far, the only part I like is this hierarchy thing. It's got promise. It appeals to a need for security and structure. Maybe we could have some sort of merchandising associated with those levels, like a little commemorative jewelry so that members could identify one another?"

"Why not?" Keech smiled, "It's all up to us."

"If it's the book, do we need this Calico at all? Seems reckless to pin ourselves and a lot of money to a schizo," Mannon asked.

"She's absolutely key," Keech said, "Listen to this."

Keech pressed a button on the table. A recording of Calico's girlish, life-affirming voice floated through the speakers. It said:

"In the unaware, it provides comfort and the illusion of certainty, but left unknown, it becomes a parasite with a festering death-wish. We must each choose for ourselves the face of God or be forever buried."

"That voice," Molloy said, nodding, "You're right, Keech. There really is something here."

"Okay," Bean beamed, tossing down his pencil, "I'm in. Let's get down to it. What kind of religion do we want? Your basic generic Judeo-Christian born-into-sin-and-needs-a-redeemer deal, or are we talking more Eastern, more along the lines of a 'thou art god' religion, where everyone has just a little bit of their own pure divinity? Do we want any manifest intermediaries between ourselves and God? Is Calico our new Aeon, some sort of Jesus? The son returned as daughter?"

"No," Bensen waved his hand, "Wouldn't wash in today's market. We can't give people what they think they've got, we've got to give them what they think they're missing. Guilt is the status quo, so we've got to provide freedom. No intermediaries between the self and God."

"You're right," Molloy added, "Calico is more of a teacher, a pal. Maybe she got there first and now she can give us directions, but salvation isn't peculiar to her."

"I think we're giving the intermediary thing short shrift. We'll be giving up a lot of potential control," Mannon said.

"Not at all," Bean smiled, "The best way to control someone is to make them think they're in control."

"But is she Jesus, Moses, Mohammed or Buddha?"

"All men, you'll notice."

"Yeah, we've got a real shot at tapping into all that earth-mother shit going down the last decade or so. It's done wonders in clothing retail."

"I'm looking through this thing and I'm trying to make it jive with what you're saying, but I can't," Molloy said, "Where, in this book, in this notion of a human God or Aeon or whatever, is the punishment and reward? It'll never fly."

"Oh, forget the book. It's not important in this context," Keech said.

"Not important? You dumped it in front of us like it was the next Bible!" Molloy objected.

"Yes, exactly, the next Bible. The book that has been twisted and misinterpreted for thousands of years for the sake of humans seeking power and coherence. Do you think the Christian church would have survived the Crusades or the Inquisition if it went 'by the book' so to speak? Yes, we have a book. Yes, it says what it says, but in the end, if we do our jobs, people will believe it says whatever we tell them it says."

"So what do you think, boys," Bean asked again, "are we ready to throw off our shackles or are we looking for a new taskmaster?"

"Like I said, I think we're all sick of feeling guilty and undeserving. That's the current trend, anyway, and the pendulum's due for a swing." Molloy said.

"I agree, but I don't think we'll want to do without Guilt entirely. It's such a perennial. Maybe now, we're overburdened. We've got the rent, the mortgage, we don't want any more obstacles – so we offer freedom." Bean said.

"Quite right," Keech said, "but look at the long term. Once they're free for a few years, they'll be like children. They'll beg to know what to do, where to go, they'll crave law, and then they'll crave guilt. So it's not so much a question of whether or not to use guilt, it's a question of _when_ and in what amount. I suggest we start out with total freedom, call it Phase One, then adjust as the market dictates."

Bud Bean picked up his pad and giggled at what he had written on it.

"Well, in that case, I think I've got a slogan for phase one," he said.

"Well, don't hold back, man!" Molloy said.

Bean shrugged, flipped over the pad so they could all see it, and read what he had written, " _Feel the need – find the power!_ "

Someone said, "Perfect!"

After that, they all started speaking at once.
7. One Man's Ceiling

The demon-thing leaned in closer, its eyes twin beams of blackened evil, its smallish skull covered in light, white skin. As the creature's dark orbs threatened to bore into the woman's soul, the tiny bit of humanity left in its shell struggled to hold back the malevolent force. It was no use. In an instant, the terrifying truth exploded from the parched throat, threatening to reduce her to nothing.

"I am Gaza!" he howled, wild-eyed and feral. His dried lips twisted into a wicked smile.

There was a pause as the woman rustled some pages.

"I'm sorry, was that Ga _r_ za?" Beth Mansfield asked, struggling with the pad in her lap.

"No. Gaza."

"With a 'z' or an 's'?"

"G – A – Z – A! Gaza! The gift of god!"

"Is that in a language I might have heard or, or is it something that just came to you?"

"All languages. All tongues. Gaza."

Its gaze wandered down to the pad, to make sure she was getting it down correctly. When it was certain she had, it pulled its head up and stared into her eyes again.

"You come to Gaza because you wish to know the truth," he said.

Beth shrugged as she searched through her papers for the proper file, "Uh, actually, Gaza, I just had a few background questions."

"Then you are a fool," he answered, unable to conceal the disappointment in his voice. No one had been to see Gaza in months, and the one true master of all things had grown lonely.

Beth, meanwhile, though she said nothing, inwardly agreed that she was indeed a fool. This was her fourth session in the Jesus Ward, as the interns called it, and she still hadn't gotten used to the small interview room. Gaza could get up and pace on his side of the glass, but the tiny desk she was cramped behind barely let her move her arms, much less sift through papers and notes. An adjacent observation room, currently empty, had left the tiny space remaining nearly unfit for human habitation.

Last week, after that fiasco with the housewife who thought she was Elijah, Beth promised herself she'd put her papers in some kind of order before stuffing them in her carry-bag. Now, Gaza's file was nowhere to be found, and the King of Time and Space was losing patience.

"Is that it, with the yellow tab?" Gaza asked, peeking from behind the glass.

Sure enough, he was right.

"Yes, thank you. How did you know?" she asked.

"Gaza knows all."

She nodded back, then thought, "Yeah, all the ward's files have yellow tabs. He must have seen them before."

She was new, barely a month the job, but getting the hang of things quickly, particularly the little mind games psychotics liked to play. The first stage of her new assignment consisted of these interviews; meeting madmen and women, finding patterns, gauging types, then trying to fit them into the model of cults she was building based on that book, _When Prophecy Fails_. Then, if all went well, she'd be assigned an active cult to study.

She scanned the file to jog her memory. Gaza was once Clarence Dwight, a gas station attendant in Nebraska, until he received a "call" revealing his true identity as master of the material plane. Two years ago, he and three women were incarcerated for setting fire to an elementary school. At the time of their arrest, they claimed the flames would free the children's souls from the prison of their bodies. No one was hurt, but Gaza was judged criminally insane and, for his troubles, granted membership in the Jesus Ward.

"I see you had followers," she said, looking up briefly. That was key for her purposes. A potential cult in the making.

Gaza smiled and said, "Still do."

True enough. There were five "Gaza Girls" at the time of his arrest and subsequent imprisonment. Two weren't directly involved with the fire, and so were at large. They were using their freedom, if one could call it that, to spread Gaza's word through a small newsletter and web page, to which Gaza himself managed to contribute "telepathically." They claimed a circulation of over 3,000, with about 200 true believers. Gaza had promised his believers many things.

"Why do you think that is, Gaza?" Beth asked, "Some of your followers have Master's Degrees. Why would they believe in your power after you were convicted, jailed, and otherwise shown to be powerless?"

He spoke slowly, peacefully, as he glanced around at the walls of the room.

"They see what others cannot. They know these chains are illusions that Gaza will burst free from."

"Yes," Beth said, checking her notes, "You promised them you would break free and deliver them all to a new Eden. You even announced a date, October 22, 1996. What went wrong?"

The peace faded from his face. Gaza stared through the glass at Beth with contempt.

"Nothing went wrong. It was a test of faith. They must be strong to face the days ahead."

"Then you made the same promise again for February 3, 1997."

"Another test."

"March 4?"

"And on that day, the faithful saw me walk among the clouds."

"But no one seems to have gone to Eden, and you're still here. Part of you, anyway."

"Only the part that needs to speak to you, so you can spread the news to your sterile world. Gaza is gracious and seeks salvation for all. I am legion, and my numbers continue to grow. All will know the day when it comes – when the earth shakes beneath your feet and fire leaps from the stones to burn you, and your children take up the bones of your parents and use them to beat you to death. You will see it then. You will see it all."

"When?"

"August 3, 2006."

"Giving yourself a little more slack time, this go round, huh?" Beth muttered. In an instant, she realized she should have stayed silent.

Gaza leapt to his feet and pounded savagely at the glass.

"Do not mock Gaza!" he screeched.

His arms were thin, his body slight, and though he hammered as hard as he could, the thick glass barely moved. Nonetheless, Beth dropped her file and scrambled to press a small button on the wall.

Gaza's eyes rolled back up into his head so that only the blood-shot whites could be seen. Drool dripped from his mouth and rolled down his chin and neck.

He began muttering, " _Asa nan ferrum oyi_!" over and over.

Just as he was about to hurl himself at the glass again, two interns rushed in and quickly pinned his arms. As they struggled to restrain his writhing form, he turned to Beth and said, "There is a conjunction in the stars at that time, an event that has not happened since the last time Gaza walked the earth. If this is not true, Beth Mansfield, and I am not who I say I am and what I predict will not come to pass, then tell me why do my followers _grow_ in number? Could it be they hear a truth you fail to? Could it be that they know what you do not?"

Gaza was dragged out. The door shut behind him, leaving Beth alone with her pounding heart. It wasn't Gaza that got to her, exactly, it was a memory. The look in Gaza's eyes reminded her of her father when he was angry, and also of a boss at her first job. They were two men, considered functional by most definitions, who also didn't like to be contradicted by the facts. There had been no glass between them and Beth, though.

Still thinking of the men in her past as she bent down to collect her papers, an odd thought struck her. If Clarence had gotten a business degree and simply lied about his "calling" he, with all his energy and personal charisma might well seem perfectly at home in a Board Room, a Senate seat, or even as the dictator of a small country. He had the intelligence, the drive and the crude savvy necessary to be a leader of men.

She picked up her list of interviewees and glanced at the names. What made these broken creatures different from those who ruled nations or corporations? What made them different from anyone who believed they were born to rule? Happenstance? Didn't they all somehow, in some way, think themselves special, chosen, different? And if chosen, then by whom, if not God? The thought crossed her mind that perhaps the only real difference was that the "leaders" outside had simply learned to state their beliefs more effectively.

And if Gaza had found the right words, what then? Was that sanity? A simple question of translation? She shuddered.

The door clicked open, letting in some much needed air. Dr. Gald, her liaison to the hospital, a huge, reassuring teddy bear of a man, helped her out into the large hall.

"You have to be careful not to challenge them so directly, Ms. Mansfield," he offered, "They have a lot of emotional energy invested in their belief systems. For Clarence to admit he is not Gaza would mean admitting he put hundreds of children in danger for nothing."

Beth shrugged sheepishly, "I know. I don't know what I was thinking. Maybe the promotion came a little too soon."

"Nonsense," Gald smiled, "you're doing wonderfully. You care, and you're attentive to detail. The rest will come. Clarence is particularly touchy. Once, I set Gaza off by wearing the wrong color tie. Purple offended his astral vibrations. Who knew?"

Beth smiled back, already much calmer. He was a kind man, hardworking and sincere, she thought, much different from her father, that boss and Gaza. She felt lucky to be working with him.

She thought nothing of it when he walked her out of the building towards her car, but when Gald coughed a bit and started shuffling his feet at the edge of the parking lot, she knew something was up. She thought the big, old teddy bear was about to ask her out for dinner.

"Ms. Mansfield," he began, " I've watched your work here with some interest, and I've come to respect your opinion on certain issues. When you're finished with all the patients you've selected, I was wondering if perhaps...."

"Here it comes," Beth thought.

"Well, I was wondering if you'd consider adding one more patient to your list."

"Huh?"

"He's a special case, very cogent, very coherent for periods. I actually look forward to my sessions with him. I've sort of been keeping him to myself." Gald said.

"Uh, I'm studying cults," Beth said, recovering her composure quickly and hoping Gald hadn't noticed her hesitation, "does he have any followers?"

"No, no, but he has some very interesting ideas, similar to the one's you're working on in some ways. I really just wanted to get your opinion on him. I'm not familiar with a lot of the nuances of religious, um, mechanics that he discusses and I was hoping you could help me determine how much of his speech is delusional, how much is education," Gald said, a little embarrassed.

Beth grimaced. She had her hands full with the current crop. One more was one too many.

"If he's all that bright and coherent," she asked, "what's he doing here?"

"Ostensibly, for trying to kill his father. In reality, he's delusional. He believes he's written a magical book that can save the world. A variation on the Jesus syndrome in some ways, but there are some interesting complexities," Gald explained.

"A writer, eh?" Beth nodded, "All right, I'll talk to him."

"He's not quite ready yet, but he's coming along. In a week or so, I'd like you to meet him."

Beth sighed, clicking her pen, "What's his name?"

"It's an odd one," Dr. Gald said, "Hapax Trigenomen."
8. Another man's floor

Samson was fighting with Jesus over the rules to a game of chess. Yahweh's long-haired servant had never heard of a piece being resurrected just because some pawn made it to the other side of the board. When Jesus calmly explained that the game was over, and he had won, Samson became furious and knocked the whole thing over. Nearby, Mohammed wanted to get to the water cooler, but Moses kept blocking his way, refusing to allow him to drink until the water split in two. Buddha watched, refusing to get involved. He found everything funny at first, but started to cry when Gaza walked back into the room. Buddha was hurt that Gaza had been interviewed before he was. After all, Buddha had been here for 4,000 years.

Hapax Trigenomen sat alone in a corner, helpless amidst the parade of medicated gods and prophets. His head was bent forward, giving his motionless, open eyes a view of his body from the neck down. His static arms, limp wrists and trembling hands looked just fine, but they all felt numb and oh so far away. Then there were the fingers, of course, the ten digits that anthropologists theorized had brought about the birth of human consciousness. Even numb, Hapax could always feel himself in his fingers.

Just at the edge of his low field of vision, a pile of papers sat on a table. They weren't newspapers or magazines exactly. Those barely existed anymore. These were printouts from electronic magazines. Normally, one would read them on a computer, but computers weren't allowed. Hapax tried to make out one of the headlines. Unfortunately, the text was getting smaller every day while the pictures grew and grew. He couldn't be sure, but one of the headlines seemed to read:

MAN FLIES VERY HIGH – DOES HE TOUCH SKY?

Not too bad, rather like a Haiku, he thought. Probably some poor journalist out there in the byte stream still thinking his feelings were important. Someone who hadn't figured out yet that it was all pointless. How could he? Most of the population didn't have a clue. After all, maybe you really do have to be trapped in a sewer or waiting in an abortion clinic or sitting in an insane asylum to truly understand that all moments are essentially the same.

That sounded good. He wished he had a pencil to write it down, but pencils weren't allowed either. They were afraid he might stab his hand and ruin a perfectly good pencil. Maybe if he said it over and over again he would remember it. All moments are essentially the same. All moments are essentially the same. All moments are... or are they? And then a trail of words took off without him. It was no use. He could barely remember it now. Sober, it had been hard enough to hold onto any thoughts. The drugs made it impossible.

A hand waved under his eyes. It was Doctor.

"Hapax?" Doctor said.

Hapax raised his head a little. About the only things he could remember, oddly enough, were the things Doctor said. For example, Doctor said if he was good, maybe they'd take him off the pills that made him shit strange colors and piss out semen mixed with urine. Doctor also said the Mafia wouldn't come for him and take him to his parents, if he were good. Doctor said they'd even give him candy, if only he'd stop screaming. Hapax wasn't sure he wanted to.

A while ago, when Doctor asked him to talk about his parents, Hapax said, "Well, I don't want to make them sound like monsters or anything. I'd rather let them do that for themselves."

This disturbed Doctor. Any show of wit seemed to disturb him. He was silent for a moment, then said, slowly, "I've spoken with them, Hapax, rather often, and to me they seem like perfectly pleasant people, terribly concerned about the pain their son is in."

This made Hapax get all scrunched up.

"Really?" Hapax answered, "Then, I guess I do belong here, because I completely fabricated two vile, self-destructive people who destroyed the one thing in the world I thought might save me from them and the sad, demonic image of the world they implanted in my brain since the day I was born."

"You feel angry at them," Doctor had said in response.

Today, though, Doctor was being much more direct.

"Hapax, do you hear any voices?" he asked.

Hapax smiled. He liked the question a great deal.

"Can I answer your question with a question?" he said to Doctor.

Doctor hesitated, then looked up from his sheet, clicked his pen shut with his thumb and said, "If you like."

"These voices you asked me about, the ones that schizophrenics hear, do you know where they come from? What they are?" Hapax asked.

"I'm not sure what you mean," Doctor said with furrowed brow.

"I mean where do they come from? The ground? The air? Personal experience?"

"Experience, I suppose. Parents. Authority figures. Deeply buried memories being used by a fragmented psyche to communicate with itself," Doctor answered, wondering if he was being too technical but aware of Hapax' fear of condescension.

"Yes, yes, but you don't take that extra step. You don't get their real power at all, do you?" Hapax said, a glint in his sedated eyes.

"I'm sure they seem powerful to the person who hears them."

"They're even more powerful to the person who doesn't. Freud was wrong. Jung came closer but got locked into that stupid universal myth thing that Joseph Campbell preaches. I guess some people just have to think of themselves as magicians. I, on the other hand, am not guessing. I simply know," Hapax said.

Hapax paused and moved a little closer to Doctor. He smiled in a conspiratorial fashion that did indeed make him look crazy.

"I could explain it to you, if you like, but only if you promise to really listen," Hapax said.

"All right," Doctor answered, settling back in his chair.

"You said their source might be a parent or an authority figure," Hapax began, "Good guess. The voices often seem to take an authoritative tone – do this, do that, don't do that. What a good boy, what a bad boy. So they certainly sound like a parent. If it was a parent, though, the next question is what makes the _parent_ talk like that? We Westerners are so interested in setting boundaries around things, breaking them down into pieces, that we seldom let ourselves reason in the other direction – out.

"Let me tell you a story. In my senior year in High School, I was sitting in a bar, listening to my girl-friend talk about her life. She didn't want me to comment, really, that was clear after a few minutes, just to listen, to act as a sounding board for her troubles. As she spoke she sounded sad. She felt that she had somehow boxed herself into a corner and didn't understand how or why. She rattled off the chances she wanted to take with her life, the things she thought might make her happy, then responded with a list of reasons for not taking any chances at all. It dawned on me, as she engaged in her monologue, this self-answering conversation, that there was more than one voice coming out of her, and that several of them clearly weren't hers. There was a voice of caution, a voice of bravery, a voice of morality, a voice of indulgence. One might have once been an aunt, another a teacher, one or two must have been her parents.

"During her life, she had heard them all, and, along the way, adopted them into her psyche. So here they were, all talking to each other, right in front of me, as real as real can be. It dawned on me as I listened to her, to all of her, that to say it was the mom or the dad or the aunt, didn't finish the question. After all, they were people, too, just like this woman, just like me, and they had all gotten these attitudes, these perspectives, these "voices" from somewhere else.

"But here, in this woman, my admittedly ambivalent girlfriend, they all spoke with such personality, such conviction that when I made the leap, when I started thinking this was not _her_ , or any _one_ in particular, I started picturing not the people, but each _voice_ as having its own history, its own ... life, communicated from person to person, generation to generation, as part of the psyche, but at the same time maintaining such individuality, in tone, intent, perhaps even cadence, that it could be judged as a separate living thing.

"I believe that these voices are the building blocks of our individual identities, and we, in turn, generate them. If Jung hadn't bastardized the term by trying to link it to some half-assed biological structure in the brain, I would call them archetypes, the primal forms out of which our selves are made. Instead, I use the term Aeon."

There was silence for a moment. Hapax noticed, to his dismay, that Doctor had failed to take any notes. He seemed to be in some sort of reverie. Hapax waited.

"Are they alive, the way we are, these Aeons?" Doctor finally asked.

It was a question, a good one, not some psychological trick. Hapax had to think about it a minute, then he said, "Well, they locomote, moving from body to body, they reproduce, my brain to your brain, parent to child, friend to friend. They just don't have bodies, or rather single bodies, the way we do. Honestly, I don't know if they're alive the way we are. They may be alive more the way the earth is, you know, the movement of the tectonic plates and such. Anyway, I do think that the most useful way to think about them, maybe the only way to really grasp the idea of them, is to consider them alive."

"Go on," Doctor said.

"Okay, here's the frightening part. Some of these voices go back only a few decades, maybe even a few years, but others, others are ancient. The biggest, oldest one I know of goes back about 2500 years, but hell, some might even go back to the origin of mankind. Think of that. Cultures shaped by these voices, wars motivated by these vast repositories for the collected experiences of life."

Hapax leaned back and exhaled. He'd never told anyone any of this. It had never been spoken aloud. It was a strange, exciting relief.

"So, to finally answer your question, yes, I do hear voices, especially since I've been here. But don't worry, I know enough about what they are and where they come from that they don't bother me, at least not enough to drive me into catatonia. I look at them, they look at me, and, eventually, as time passes, with the help of your kind medications, they will fade back into the shadows once more. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say that my consciousness, in healing, will find it more difficult to hear them, since they never really fade, we just become them."

"These Aeons of yours, they rule us?"

Hapax bristled, unsure if he was being humored. Doctor motioned for him to continue. There was no point in stopping now.

"Rule? I'm not quite sure I'd use that word. Let me think about it. Does the movement of a hand in the light _rule_ the shadow it casts? Yes, I suppose in a way it does, only in this instance, I'm not quite certain who is shadow and who is hand. It seems to me that perhaps we reflect each other. The Aeons wouldn't exist without human psyches. They "sit" on us, are made out of us, so in some ways that makes _us_ the hand, not the shadow. Yet at the same time, our behavior, our relationships, our feelings, the essence of us on a personal, social and species level, is filtered through the Aeons, informed, codified and given meaning by them. They are the fates, the gods of light and darkness, and that makes us the shadow, and them the hand. I'm afraid I'm not being terribly clear in answering your question. I suppose, in a larger sense, I don't really know. It's not like I found something immortal and immutable. All the Aeons taken together don't necessarily form a coherent cosmology. Sometimes they're at war with each other, sometimes at peace, sometimes they're benevolent, sometimes a bane, but the point was, is, that they form us, they're the filter through which reality reaches us – and the matrix through which we create. They live and die, but across decades and millennia, and unless we give up our childish notion of an indissoluble self and come to terms with them _as_ us, we're condemned to ride out the momentum of whatever game they care to play," Hapax said.

This time, Doctor did make some notes. In fact, he wrote for quite some time, leaving Hapax to break the silence.

"We in the West have been stuck in one major Aeon for a long time. Who we are, who we believe ourselves to be, is trapped by what that God allows us to be – in an effort to preserve himself. What my Great Work did was figure out which buttons you need to push to access your Aeons. When you play the right chords, you can make a new melody, even change Aeons," Hapax said, then waited hopefully for a response.

Doctor looked up, concern replacing confusion on his face.

"Are they wise, these Aeons?" he asked.

Hapax sighed, "Some, I guess, but they're so damn extreme, they often seem a little silly to me, like a cartoon. Actually, I don't know if that's a quality inherent in them or just the only way I apprehend them. Of course, none of it matters now, the book is gone and I could never reconstruct it in time." Hapax said.

"In time for what?"

"Well, before the language dies. The method I developed to access and alter Aeons uses words. I have no idea how they can be encountered without them," Hapax said.

"The language is _dying_ , did you say?" Doctor asked.

"Uh, I'm a little tired. Maybe we'd better leave that for another day," Hapax said.

Doctor stared for a while, picked up his notes and left.
9. How are you today?

"Hello. I'm Sally and this is Elaine," Sally said, smiling.

"Uh, hi," Marty ventured, stopping dead in his tracks.

"You guys read comics," Elaine noticed cheerfully.

"Yeah," Steven piped in.

"Very cool. A lot of great myths that invest our lives with meaning have survived through comics," Elaine nodded.

Two attractive women talking to two overweight teenage boys. Marty bristled, his urban second sense afire.

"Are you going to try to sell us something?"

Sally smiled even more, revealing a row of perfect, white teeth.

"You're really bright," Sally said, "and you're right! We are going to try to sell you something. What are your names?"

Going on the hopelessly optimistic notion that Elaine and Sally were going to sell them sex, Marty said, "Marty."

"Steve," Steve said, nodding a bit by way of introduction.

"Steve, Marty, we're going to try to sell you something, but not something you can touch, and not for money. We're going to try to sell you a lifestyle," Elaine explained.

"Must be pretty difficult being that smart," Sally said sympathetically, "You probably feel like a lot of people just don't understand you."

"I get by," Marty said, trying to maintain some dignity.

"I'm sure you do," Sally continued.

She stood a little closer and put her hand on Marty's shoulder, squeezing it just a bit and added, "But with just a little education, you can do better."

"Better how?" Steve asked.

"Well," Sally said, still holding Marty by the shoulder, but facing Steve, "From the moment we're born, the Script Writer in us writes the script of our lives. It determines our failures, our successes, anything and everything we do. Even so, that Script Writer is just a part of us, so really, whether or not we get what we want still comes down to you and me. The problem is that most of us have no idea how to access that Script Writer, so we just keep living out the same old movie. We feel our needs, but we can't find the power to fulfill them. Take you guys. Steve, what would you like most of all right now?"

Fixated by the one thought in his mind, Steve hemmed and hawed.

"A little self-conscious, eh?" Sally said, "No problem. You're a young man, full of hormones, feeling your identity for the first time, maybe you want to meet girls, but, maybe you don't know how. You feel the need, but you can't find the power."

"Isn't that what that bag lady says?" Marty said, nervously staring at the woman's hand pressed against his shoulder. He was starting to sweat.

"You _are_ smart, Marty, and obviously connected to the changing times we live in. Yes, it's _exactly_ what Calico says, and we'd like you to read her book," Sally said.

She lifted her hand from his shoulder with a gesture that said, "Now wasn't that simple?"

"Uh, I don't know," Marty said, "I'm Jewish."

"Shalom! So am I!" Elaine chimed in.

Apologetic, Marty added, "My parents are very conservative."

"What about you? What does Marty need?" Sally said, brows furrowed in enthusiastic attention.

"I'm very conservative, too," Marty quickly concluded, "Is there any kind of trinity in this thing?"

"No, not at all. It's completely new," Sally said, "We're part of a very informal group that recognizes the importance of what Calico is trying to teach us. We want to help spread her ideas. We call ourselves the Church of the Ultimate Signifier – now that's a little complicated to explain simply. It's kind of like when John said, 'In the beginning was the Word' but it's more about the power we as individuals can exercise over our own Word."

Marty started backing away, making negative-sounding grunts, "John? Sounds Christian. I mean, you're calling yourselves a church."

"Church is a bad word," Elaine ventured, "It isn't a church-church. It's just people, like you and me, feeling needs, finding power."

"Um, I think I'll pass," Marty said.

"Okay, that's cool. No pressure. You can always change your mind," Sally said. Then, smiling broadly again, she turned to Steve and asked, "What about you?"

"Uh, what would you want me to do?" Steve said.

"Just come back to our little office, have a soda, fill out a questionnaire and, if you fit our profile, get yourself a free book. What have you got to lose?" she said.

Steve looked at the two women, smiled and said, "Let's go."

*

"The time is nigh," Beth whispered to no one in particular, though she wondered if her computer was listening. With some difficulty, and a few expletives, she managed to access the video file that Paul Edison, her new supervisor asked her to review. An introductory screen explained that it was a copy of an unreleased Infomercial by the Church of the Ultimate Signifier, soon to be seen across the country on broadcast, cable and computer line. How it was obtained was not explained. She clicked on the START icon and settled back, more annoyed than amazed at the versatility of her machine.

A serene, smiling woman appeared on Beth's screen. The second she saw her, Beth couldn't help but admire her composure.

"Hi," she said, "Two years ago, I was a crack addict wandering the streets of New York. Today, I'm a successful chef in my own plush, upscale restaurant. That's right, a woman making it big in a male dominated industry. How'd I do it? With the help of the Great Word, I learned the facts about what I was up against, in the world and in myself. With the help of Calico and the Church of the Ultimate Signifier, I uncovered the source of my own listlessness, and I beat it."

The camera began a slow zoom to a close-up. No longer impressed, Beth's eyebrow arched derisively.

"Did you know," the woman said, "that the reason European chefs are all male can be traced back to an 18th century belief that women of class are supposed to be idle? Back then, it was not only unseemly for a wealthy woman to cook, it was a sign of abject failure. As time passed, Western women began associating success not with action and reward, but with idleness. So not only did this Aeon perpetuate male dominance in the kitchen, it left those women who did cook for their families thinking themselves failures. This is one of many thought patterns I inherited purely by being born into our culture. That's right, our culture. There are two words you don't hear together much anymore. I tell you, once I took control of my life and put that Aeon to rest, my quest for new idyll highs faded into nothing, and my career took off like a rocket."

The camera stopped zooming at an intimate moment, then switched to a different angle. The woman dutifully adjusted the direction of her head and went on.

"Now, we're not all idlers," she said confidently, "but we all have Aeons. Maybe it's time to ask yourself if your Aeons work with you or against you. Are you a poet trapped in a Warrior Aeon? Are you a meek businessman whose days are still secretly ruled by the class bells you heard in High School? That's an Aeon, too. Whoever you are, whatever mode you're in, it always pays to be aware."

A small banner flashed on the bottom of the screen, reading, "Paid for by the Church of the Ultimate Signifier."

The file ended, but Beth kept staring at the blank screen for a few minutes, wondering what to make of it. Then she glanced at the time and hurried to the Assistant Director's office.

Although she arrived right on time, Assistant Director Edison was waiting for her in the hall. Hand on her back, he hurriedly escorted her into his office. He didn't even wait until she was seated before he started talking.

"So Beth," he said, What do you know about this new church?"

"Some bag woman named Calico received a "call" and started proselytizing. Her followers formed a loosely-knit organization they call a church, funded by donations. It started here in the city, but with the publication of the Great Word, it's been making quick inroads around the country, mostly in urban and college areas. Other than its size and the speed at which it's growing, there's nothing particularly atypical about the Church or its belief system, except, perhaps a strong desire to appeal to mass market tastes and current trends. It's kind of the McDonald's of cults," she said.

Edison pushed a sealed file towards Beth. She picked it up, noted its classification rank then looked at Edison with concern. He nodded, indicating she should open it.

As she struggled with the seal, he said, "That's the official story. What _we_ know is in that file. A few of our boys, uh, boys and girls ... Damn, that sounds ridiculous. Sometimes I hate this language. Hell, a few of our _people_ have managed to uncover the real money behind the church. That's on page A3, I believe."

Beth flipped through the file, then scanned the names. Her brow furrowed. The names were all familiar, but seemed wildly out of context when presented on the same page with the word 'Church.'

"This is Albert Keech's crew," she said, bewildered, "What would big rollers like that want with this church?"

"We don't know, and we'd really like to," Edison said, then he smiled at her, "Beth, congratulations. Your performance has been superlative. The Church of the Ultimate Whatever the Hell It Is, is all yours. Once your preliminary research is done, you'll have five agents under your command for infiltration and fact gathering."

"Thank you, sir," Beth said, "I, uh, don't know what to say."

"Say nothing. Proceed slowly. I'll be checking in with you regularly. I suspect you'll want to suspend your interviews at the Jesus Ward," he said.

"Uh, actually, there is _one_ more interview I'd like to conduct there."

"Oh yes, your high school boyfriend. Dr. Gald tells me he delayed that interview for a few months when he learned of your past relationship."

"Personal interest aside, sir, his delusional pattern is unique. He thinks he wrote a bible. This Calico, if she is the author of The Great Word, seems to be assuming the same for herself. He might be helpful in establishing personality profiles or other patterns," she said.

"As you see fit, Agent Mansfield," he said, nodding, "but I do want you to chat about this with one of our therapists, before and after."

Beth nodded, then her eyes trailed down to the Growth Projections in the file.

The supervisor was apparently expecting her to leave. When she didn't, he asked, "Something else, Beth?"

"There are very powerful men behind this movement, sir. Experts in financing and merchandising, and I guess that partly explains the speed at which the cult is growing, but I was wondering, what it would mean if these projections were correct, if they reached thirty million followers inside of two years," Beth asked.

"Then, agent," Edison said without blinking, "they are no longer a cult. They are a religion."

*

"In matters of the spirit, something to push against, to mix with, is absolutely required, just as in matters of the flesh. So come," Calico said, "try to recognize yourself in me. It won't be hard, I promise. A few well-placed phrases here and there will awaken your natural empathy and then we'll be on our way, you and I, mixing our innermost selves in a most delicious and fruitful manner."

Hold them all in the palm of your hand.

"Please! I beg you! If you don't, then I am nothing, a bodiless, homeless voice. I know some of you think the spirit is free and somehow better than the flesh, but it's not, I swear. Please, find yourself in me – without you, I am only words, millions of words, yes, but not real. Only you can give me form and release me from this terrible freedom."

Take them up to your mouth and eat them.

"I can tell you about myself, if it will help. Once, when I was sad, I felt as though I was always sad. I could take anything, anything at all and make it seem hollow and pointless. I was sad for a hundred lifetimes, maybe longer, until the sadness became so comfortable and familiar that it fooled me into thinking that it was the only world. Then one day, out of boredom, I started paying too much attention – I started seeing the seams in the sadness, the places where it came to an end. Was this joyful? No. It was terrifying. The world I lived in, the world I had come to know began to cave in. Everything I trusted turned out to be false, and when it crumbled, a shadow in light, I was cast into a cold and endless void. Do you ever feel that way?

"Little by little, as I fell through the void, I came to enjoy the rush of air against my cheeks, the thrill of the dizzying view. Little by little, I came to feel this as joy. And when I felt that joy, I could take anything, anything at all, and make it feel full of life and possibility. I couldn't even remember ever having felt sad at all. I could not remember ever having doubted joy. So I learned this about myself; that when I doubt it is as though I never believed in anything, and when I believe it is as though I never doubted.

"Do you see anything of yourself in that? Anything at all? Please tell me that you do. To be only a voice is so lonely."

Chew before you swallow, child.

"Have I found you yet? Am I there yet, inside you now? Perhaps it has already happened, perhaps we are already one. Perhaps it has already happened a dozen times, but I am sad and doubting from too much time alone, too fearful to know faith, too blind to see, too foolish to do anything but continue speaking. Do you ever feel that way?"

A hand came down hard. Thick fingers pressed into her shoulder. Calico squirmed and fell silent.

"Let's go," the police officer said.

Her whole body started to tremble, just from the weight of the hand.

Calico and all the voices within thought she would die, when a wall of low, angry sound rumbled out of the crowd. Just a few boos at first, a cacophony of grunts and grumbles that made the officer sneer. Then it started getting louder, angrier, the grunts rising into shouts, the shouts coalescing into a chant that echoed in Calico's head:

"Let the girl go! Let the girl go!"

Faced with that one loud and certain voice, the lone officer, his face pale, stepped away from Calico. At that, the ad hoc crowd of a thousand listeners, each one feeling privileged to have happened upon one of Calico's random appearances, cheered wildly.
10. Symptoms & Syllogisms

_Go in, get out, get it over with as quickly as possible_ , she thought.

Sensing her unease, Dr. Gald put his hand on her shoulder, then indicated the door to the interview room. The hall was quieter than she'd remembered. It was brighter, too, since the walls had recently been painted. It might even seem cheery, if she could only stop imagining the now-mad form of her High School sweetheart.

"Try to talk only of pleasant things," Dr. Gald said.

Beth was puzzled, "I thought you wanted my opinion on the details of his delusion. That's bound to bring up some touchy issues."

"That," Gald said, tilting his head to the side slightly, "was before I was aware of your past association. You were his first and only girlfriend. That's a psychic role of terrific importance."

"Only?" Beth said, flustered, "You didn't tell me that. I mean, I knew I was his first, but his only? Besides, you said he was getting better. If he's that fragile, should I be seeing him at all?"

"Hard to say. In this situation, _better_ is a tricky term," Gald said, increasingly uncomfortable himself, "In the case of an initial episode like this, it's always difficult to tell whether the psychosis is a temporary reaction or the first indication of a chronic condition. He's less agitated and disoriented, but he continues to cling to his delusional belief system. Introducing an emotional trigger under controlled circumstances, might help us determine..."

"Wait a minute. You're using me as a guinea pig to test his stability?" Beth asked, pulling away from the door.

Gald sighed heavily, "You're right. Perhaps this was a mistake. Before I knew you were part of his past, I really did want your opinion. Now, with the opportunity falling into my lap, so to speak, well, I owe you an apology. If you decide you don't want to continue, that's perfectly all right. Please understand though, in being over-cautious, I may be overstating the negative. In my official diagnosis, I concluded that this was indeed a temporary reaction and he'll probably be well enough to leave in a few months. I'd hoped that seeing how he reacts to you would only make me feel more comfortable about that prognosis. And, in all honesty, he's quite an unusual case, one that seems to fit in well with your research, and I would still greatly value your opinion of his...situation."

Beth looked at Gald and made a little face.

"I hope," she began, "you're not anticipating an entire series of meetings. I'm working on a complex project that doesn't leave me with a lot of time."

"How long and how often is entirely up to you," the doctor said, shrugging.

There was an awkward silence while Beth tried to come up with a reason for not going through with the meeting. Gald glanced down and happened to notice a large, dog-eared book in her carry-bag.

"The Great Word?" he asked, "What sort of book is that?"

Beth was surprised, "You mean you've somehow avoided the media blitz?"

"I don't have much spare time. My work keeps me very busy," Gald said, "Is it some sort of religious tract?"

"It's the "bible" of the Church of the Ultimate Signifier," Beth said, not believing he couldn't know, hoping to jog his memory.

"Ah yes, that poor young woman," Gald answered, nodding, "I have heard of her. Given our patient's attitude towards books, I think it might be a good idea to keep that out of sight this first time out."

"I was hoping to give him a copy, ask his opinion of it," Beth said.

Gald sighed, "Well, let me take it to him later. Given his obsession with the book he thinks his parents destroyed, it might be best if I showed it to him first."

Beth nodded and handed him a second copy of the Great Word, the one she intended for Hapax, saying, "You might want to take a look at it for your own enlightenment. It's a textbook for building a cult."

As she spoke, the depth of Hapax' isolation sank in. Even the doctor had heard of Calico. Everyone with access to a television, computer or newsstand knew about the Church, but not Hapax.

"Do you still want to see him?" Gald asked.

"Yes, I do."

Opening the door, he made a few final remarks, "Try to treat him normally. Let him lead the conversation."

Beth smiled slightly, "If he's at all the way I remember him, I won't have any choice about who leads the conversation."

With an answering grin, Gald opened the door. Beth's smile faded when she saw the familiar cramped table and the thick protective glass.

"Is it necessary to meet him here?" she asked, "Is he violent?"

"Regulations," Gald explained with a sigh, "He did try to kill his father."

"Treat him normally," Beth repeated as Gald vanished into the adjacent observation room.

She entered, closed the door behind her, and with some difficulty, managed to sit down. The space behind the glass was empty, they'd be bringing him in soon. How soon? Rather than stare at her watch, she started tapping out the seconds on the table, an old method of relaxation that never seemed to work. A rattle from the other side of the room made her stop and sit up.

A thin, haggard man was escorted into the room. His face was pale, his eyes more than a little glazed over, and the odd green of the hospital garb was definitely not his color. An intern helped him sit in the chair, then exited. The two of them just stared at each other, she, trying to find something familiar in his features, he seemingly with no intent at all.

Suddenly, there was a little twitch in his left cheek and his face came alive. His eyes darted back and forth across her features. Recognizing the expression, even after all those years, Beth realized that it really was Hapax. Her heart made its way into her throat.

"Beth Mansfield," he said, slurring the 's'.

"Can't leave you alone for a minute, can I, Hapax?" she answered, feigning a smile. When he smiled back, more sincerely than she, she felt a little better.

"Well, we were always interested in the same sort of thing. It's logical we might wind up in the same sort of place," Hapax answered.

She wanted to respond with some witty comeback, but Dr. Gald's admonitions held her tongue.

An odd, "Yeah, well," was all she could manage.

Hapax, sensing her unease, tried again.

"Well, Doctor told me I'd be having a special visitor soon. I had no idea he'd be digging as far back as high school. Are any of my grade school teachers waiting out in the hall?" he said, trying to look past Beth's shoulders.

Beth smiled and thought about faking a laugh, but again, couldn't manage a word.

"Sorry," Hapax said, "Inflated self-importance is a symptom of paranoid schizophrenia."

Again, nothing.

Hapax shook his head sadly, "If you're just going to sit there and be afraid of me or feel sorry for me, this isn't going to be much fun."

"For God's sake, Hapax, you're in the Jesus Ward of a psychiatric hospital!" Beth blurted out. She expected Gald to rush in and end the interview, but he didn't.

"Yeah, _and_?" Hapax said.

He didn't look insane. Unkempt, maybe, but not insane.

Another awkward silence. Hapax slumped forward and exhaled.

"Well Beth, this is _my_ cage, what's yours like?" he asked.

She smiled a little, "It's a little smaller actually. I'm with the FBI"

"Really?" Hapax asked, pleased to finally get an interesting response, "I remember your Doors phase, your Buddhist phase and your Zen phase. When did you enter your Law Enforcement phase?"

"My family had some connections and there was a research post open. I saw it as a convenient way to continue my eclectic reading list. At least, that's the way it was, until I got promoted," Beth explained, feeling strangely apologetic.

"Sorry to hear of your success," Hapax said, "Is there a file on me? Did you read it?"

"Uh, no FBI file I know of. I did read your hospital file."

"Hm. I don't have any file on you. Doesn't seem fair," he said, scanning her body, "There's no ring on your finger, and I know you're a stickler for tradition, so I'll assume you're not married. Any lovers?"

"In over a decade? Yeah, a few. What about you?"

"No relationships to speak of," Hapax said, "but sex now and then. Being dysfunctional cuts into one's social life a bit. Besides, much as I'm into rutting when the spirit moves me, there are always those moments afterwards when I find the flesh itself kind of silly, no matter how beautiful or transcendentally desirable it seemed a few minutes previously."

"Hapax, tell me something, and I think I'll believe what you tell me. Are you crazy?"

"Crazy? You want to talk crazy, let's talk crazy. You join the FBI as a matter of convenience. I follow my bliss and it leads me over a cliff. That's crazy. Me? I prefer to think of myself as logistically challenged."

"Hapax, you're in the Jesus ward of a psychiatric hospital. Do you think you're God?"

Hapax smiled a strange, smug smile that made him look like a little boy.

"No," he answered, "but I can make one for you."

"Followed your bliss, huh? A decade locked all alone in your head doesn't sound very blissful to me. Would you call that mental health?"

"Yes and no. I used to worry about it. No friends, no associations, and I suppose, in part, that's why I'm here, but in the end, I discovered, or learned, or decided, that I was wrong to worry – and you're wrong to reprimand me. 'In my head' as you so charmingly put it, I found something I believe is just as good as anything one can find 'in the world.'"

"Megalomania?"

"No, no. Well, yes, guilty as charged, but that's not what I'm talking about. More like finding a door within myself that leads ..."

"Yeah?"

"Out."

Beth stared into the impassioned eyes of her first boyfriend and again, wondered what it was that sanity was.

Hapax shuffled nervously, obviously thinking about something, then asked, "I know it was High School and all, but I've always wondered, why _did_ you leave me?"

She smiled softly, remembering, "You were too..."

"Passionate? Intense? Obsessive?" Hapax said, leaning forward expectantly.

"Nerdish," Beth answered, looking at him sadly, "Sorry."

"Ah."

Afraid she'd hurt him, she immediately began equivocating, "But I do remember how smart you were, how sensitive. I related to you in a lot of ways that I haven't been able to relate to anyone since. It's been a loss in my life. I think, in the end, we had a great affair of the mind."

"It is the largest sex organ," Hapax said, withdrawing, "But, my dear, don't flatter yourself. For my part, it wasn't your mind, it was your gorgeous, inspiring breasts, which, I might add, as far as I can tell, still seem to be in fine shape."

"Hapax!"

"It's the Thorazine. Releases my inhibitions."

"I thought it was supposed to restore them."

"Maybe it's not working," he smiled, but then, remembering she'd be speaking to Doctor, he added, "No, actually, when I first came here, I fought the drugs like crazy – but, believe it or not, I've come to appreciate and yes, even enjoy their dull invasion of my mind. It's rather like having someone constantly whispering "shh!" softly in your inner ear. It seems to be working out. They're even talking about releasing me."

She wondered how wise that was. She just didn't know. Noticing her watch, Beth was about to try to end the conversation. Before she could manage a good-bye, though, he started talking again – staring ahead, not at her exactly, but speaking words he obviously wanted her to hear.

"Being mad isn't the worst of it, Beth. The worst of it is those moments when all of a sudden, out of the blue, I'm perfectly sane, completely aware – and I look around and see exactly where I am and think, my God! How did I get here? And I feel all the pain for as long as I can, but then, inevitably, that sweet oblivion dear Doctor has diagnosed as schizophrenia, but my psyche sees as the only rational response to events, settles over me again. Then, at least I can sleep. Funny, isn't it, that madness would allow me to sleep?"

Beth said nothing, but she nodded over and over.

"You were looking at your watch," Hapax said, bowing, "Time to go, huh? Maybe we'll talk again soon."

"Yeah, I'd like that."

A pleased Gald was waiting in the hall.

"Not as bad as you'd feared, eh, Ms. Mansfield?" he asked.

"No," she said, relieved, "There's something about his personality that seems wonderfully intact."

"Yes, I thought I'd seen bits and pieces of the real him shining through. That's why my diagnosis was so positive. He responded wonderfully to you. He was honest, emotional, at times defensive, for the most part healthy. It was good for him to see you," he said.

"Doctor," Beth asked, "Is it possible he did write a book that his parents destroyed? I don't have very fond memories of them."

Gald shrugged, "Oh, I suspect there was some real trauma he experienced, and that may well be it, but it doesn't mitigate the fact that when he came here he was very much out of control. We may never know."

"I would like to talk to him again, about the Great Word," she said.

"I'll give it to him tonight. We've had many a theological debate. His viewpoint on the book might well shed some light on any questions you might have on it."

"He's that intelligent?"

"If he was a little more stable, he'd make a great teacher. You have to be careful, though. Paranoids can develop incredibly complex, internally consistent belief systems that may seem rational, but are actually an attempt to protect themselves from something painful."

"Doctor, what if that highly convoluted language of the Paranoiac did somehow manage to work itself out, made correct conclusions about the self and the world?"

"Well, we have another word for that, it's called sanity."

Beth tried to leave it at the hospital, at least for a day or so, but an hour later, when she reached her office, she was still debating whether or not to visit Hapax again. Her head was full of tension and fear, odd memories, dread mixed with concern for the strange boy with the haunted mind that she'd dated so long ago.

"You have one message waiting," the computer said.

Great. Now the computer was talking. No escape. After cursing and slamming various keys, she buckled and read the manual. In less than ten minutes, she managed to retrieve the message, sent from someone inside the building, in the Computer Section. Now who would she know there? It read:

Congrats on your assignment. Glad you read the book. Did a little desk-bound poking and learned that Mr. Albert Keech ordered fifty copies of _When Prophecy Fails_ , about three months ago. Do you think it's a trend? Considering how helpful I've been, I think the least you can do is have dinner with me. - Ben

Ben? Who the hell is Ben? She wondered. It took her a few minutes to remember the talker who'd recommended the book, the one who reminded her of Hapax to begin with. Another candidate for the rubber room. How did he know about her assignment? Hackers get into the damnedest places.

So, Keech had read the book. Maybe he was using it as a game plan. That meant she might be able to second guess him. First promises, then disconfirmation. Beth logged it in the back of her mind, then started thinking, once again, about Hapax.

"There's a phone call for you, Beth," the computer said.

Not really expecting a response, she said, "Well, then, answer it!"

A familiar voice came through the speaker.

"Ms. Mansfield, this is Dr. Gald. There's been a problem."

"What sort of problem? Is Hapax all right?"

"It's difficult to explain. Could I impose upon you to return to the hospital this evening?"

"Uh..." Beth said.

Her car engine was still warm when she started it up again. The drive seemed to be one long gap in her consciousness, frozen as it had been by curiosity and concern.

Dr. Gald met her at the rear entrance and solemnly, wordlessly took her to a private room. A cassette recorder was on a small table.

"When we feel a patient may be ready to leave, with their permission, we record the last few sessions for review by our Board. This is a tape of a session with Hapax shortly after your meeting with him," he explained. Grimly, Gald pressed PLAY.

Shortly, Beth heard Hapax voice, sad, but sane.

"I feel so lonely," it said, "sometimes, like I'm the only one in the world who thinks what I think or feels what I feel."

Gald voice answered, "Hapax, if there were someone else like you, would that help your feeling of loneliness?"

"I like to think so. Maybe the sense of isolation is just a symptom of the death of the language. If I can't say 'I', how can I possibly say 'you'? If only that book I'd dreamed of had already been written."

"There is a book," Gald said, obviously pleased, "A very popular book that seems to be changing a lot of people's lives."

"Oh? Do you think I could get a copy? At this point, I'd love to read anything."

There was some rustling as Gald handed Hapax a copy of the Great Word, then a brief silence.

"The Great Word, huh?" Hapax said, a little nervously, "You know, my book was called The Great Work. Someone's beaten me to it. Oh well. Funny, I thought it was my dharma to publish that book. Guess I was wrong."

"Excellent!" Gald said on the tape, "You're learning to cope with disappointment wonderfully. Please, read it, I'd like to see what you think."

"Sure," Hapax said. There was a faint flipping of pages.

The flipping grew louder, then faster. Suddenly, an enormous shout issued from the tape deck. The sound was too loud for the small speaker to play without distortion, but the words were clear enough.

"This is my book!" Hapax screamed.

He shouted, over and over again, "My book! My book! My book!"

After a while, it didn't sound like words any more, just a long, pained scream.

Then there were the sounds of a struggle as the orderlies tried to subdue him. Fearing that the sound of Hapax being held and sedated might be upsetting to Beth, Dr. Gald pressed STOP.
11. Can you get there from here?

Moonlight pierced the townhouse glass, landing gently on Calico's cheek. Honed by the window, it made a circle the size of a quarter against her skin. Keech put his finger on the spot, gently so as not to awaken her. He lingered there, staring at the strange angel to whom the hopeless of the world now turned in droves. If she woke to find him here, she would cry out in shock and betrayal. This room in Keech's townhouse was the only place in the world she could be totally alone. He had promised her she could be alone here, that no one, not even he, would enter. He had lied of course. The mere fact that he had promised was what drove him here now.

Barely breathing, Keech lifted his finger. She stirred, mumbled something, then pulled the little doll she slept with closer to her chest and went back to her dreaming. He imagined that for her there was little difference between dreaming and living. While others had nightmares, he fancied that she dreamt of herself being loved, adored, sought after, comforted and cared for. Then, each morning, she would open her eyes and discover that her dream was true.

Had Michael ever felt so safe? Surely at some time he must have. The blissful fantasy was common, at least at some point, to all youth. Keech wondered why he couldn't remember ever having felt that way himself.

The church had come a long way since the days of crowded streets and scuffles with police. These days, as the year 2000 loomed, officers of the law ringed the stadiums where Calico spoke, protecting her, grateful for the over-time she provided. Phase II was over. The Church of the Ultimate Signifier had spread across the land, claiming tens of millions of members. World-wide sales of the Great Word topped one hundred million, if one counted on-line access, and Keech did. The hierarchy was firmly in place, from initiate to inner circle, and running like a well-oiled machine. It was time, Keech determined, for more phases, phases that Keech had yet to share with anyone.

He looked down at the sleeping mother of millions and wondered how she would feel about the great promises she would soon be making to her massive flock. He wondered how much, with her damaged soul and medicated mind, of what she had promised already she understood, how much of what she read, how much of what she said.

It didn't matter. He knew that Calico was something of an Aeon herself now. While she was right in front of him, sleeping soundly in the moonlight, she was also elsewhere, repeated untold times in millions of minds. Her voice, her tone, her persona, wrapped in the words of the book, had infiltrated the very souls of her followers and was rapidly becoming a fixture in their psyches. Who knew how long she would be there, perhaps a decade or two, or, if they were truly successful, for thousands of years.

But that wasn't the real question for Keech. The pseudo-immortality that fame brought was something he understood and rejected ages ago. What Keech wanted to know, _needed_ to know, was whether or not, when her body died, she would experience her new self – the way he hoped Michael knew he was still alive, sometimes, in Keech. Oh, logic said no. Consciousness is rooted to a single body, but the book, the book said that Aeons are self-aware. Could a person _become_ an Aeon? Why not? Being, will itself could well be a pattern. If it was, did it matter which flesh it inhabited? And if one could become an Aeon, why should this crazed, whorish gutter-snipe transcend and not Keech?

Keech was not worried. He was planning. He'd been moving, re-positioning himself towards that special, final goal. At first he hadn't realized just what he wanted, but against all advice, he began appearing with her in public, introducing her, fielding questions at press conferences, allowing himself to be identified as the man behind the scenes, the powerful right arm of Calico and the church.

The others, not understanding what was at stake, begged him to stop, but Keech did not listen. In the end, they knew they couldn't stop him from this absurd lunge for the spotlight, and instead satisfied themselves with the illusion that they had talked him into going no further. He knew that fame was key, but it was clear that while being the right hand of Calico might earn him some small status, it would not be nearly enough. He decided he must make much more of an impact on the heart of the world. If she would last a thousand years, Keech would last ten.

Quietly, while Calico slept, he slipped out of the room, just like one of the shadows.
12. Yet you fail to see it

When Beth next saw her ex-boyfriend, his arms were tied behind him and a cloth mask covered most of his head, in case he tried to bite. Two muscular interns flanked him. At her insistence, he had not been sedated quite as heavily as Dr. Gald wanted, and this was the only alternative.

Stiffly, she sat down across from him, unable to look up from the table between them. Dutifully, she started her tape recorder. Once she saw that the cassette had wound past the leader, she took a breath, slowly picked up her head and looked him in the eyes. It was the only part of his face she could really see anyway. Hapax, recognizing her, gave her a weak little wink.

"You in there, Hapax?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, slurring the 's', then he felt obliged to add, "The book is mine. It really is. I wrote it. It's mine. Cover to cover, page by page. The book is mine."

She expected more, but he closed his eyes and said nothing.

"Hapax," she said , "There's a whole genre of spiritual books."

Hapax stirred and nodded. Not bothering to open his eyes, he said, "Yes, I know."

"Sometimes," Beth began, loudly and slowly as though speaking to a child hard of hearing, "people working in the same genre have similar ideas. You must know that."

Hapax opened his eyes and glared at her.

"Dr. Gald and I think that maybe you _did_ write a book and that maybe what's happened here is that someone else had a similar idea," she offered, leaning closer.

Hapax rolled his eyes, either in disgust or in an effort to fight the few quieting drugs that were in his system. He answered her, slowly, loudly, mocking her tone.

"Beth," he said, "I can recite every word. Explain every sentence."

"Can you?" she asked. She pulled out her dog-eared copy of The Great Word.

"Try me," Hapax said. The cloth near the edge of his mouth moved slightly as though he were grinning.

She nodded, then flipped to one of many marked pages.

"Last chapter, third page. 'My dog he got three legs, your dog, he got none.' What's it mean, Hap?"

He let out a hiss of air that might have been a laugh or a sigh.

"Come on," she said calmly, "Your big chance. Prove me something."

"It's a line from a Paul McCartney song, off the album Ram."

"Okay, but what does it mean? What's it got to do with Aeons and humanity and God?"

Hapax blinked a few times and seemed to be trying to swallow.

"Nothing. I threw it in because I liked it, like a dash of extra pepper in the stew."

Realizing this proved nothing, he strained and tried to lift his head towards her. His breathing seemed labored as he said, "Beth, please, lately I've had a very limited ability to concentrate. Don't murder me with trivia. Ask me a big question, a once and for all mother fucking big question."

"All right," Beth said, "that much I think I can do."

She closed the book, put it on the table, leaned back in her large chair and looked the madman dead in the eyes.

"Before you saw The Great Word, before it was even published, you had a conversation with Dr. Gald about Aeons. You told him that Western Civilization was stuck in one particular Aeon that was about 2500 years old. If you want to prove to me you wrote the book, tell me about that Aeon."

Hapax narrowed his eyes.

"Good, Beth, good," he said, then fell silent.

Beth was worried he'd fallen asleep, but he was thinking. When he opened his eyes and picked up his head again, his movements were so sluggish and awkward, he brought to mind a mechanical fortune teller, paralyzed, immobile, but forced to dispense the sad truth to whoever put a quarter in his slot. When he spoke again, with all the desperation and intensity he could muster, he didn't stop for half an hour.

"Every moment," he said, "even now, trillions of bits of information from the world bombard our senses. The only tool we have for dealing with that huge rush is our brain. Our brains are not bigger than the world, they are smaller, and they do what they must in order to survive. They take whatever information they can hold, discard tons of it and use what's left to make a map. That map is what we react to, what we see when we say we see the world. It's not the world itself, not a better, new and improved version, just a map. Good enough to allow us to maneuver, bad enough so that it always needs to be updated. The brain makes the map by grouping similar things together: big things, little things, things that try to eat me, things that I can eat. This is just an organizational tool of the brain, but it's the tool that gave birth to God.

"Imagine primal man. God as a word or concept, is completely unknown. Man is not even aware of the map in his head. One fine day, he, or she, or maybe some sex that's been long forgotten, presses a dirty hand against a cave wall and leaves a mark on it. When he looks at the mark, he sees, quite plainly, that it looks, roughly, in some way, like his hand. He has seen and interacted with lots of things, but there's something special about this one, something different. What's different? Well, aside from just being a thing in itself, a mark on the wall, it's also a representation. It represents a real, individual hand, in the real world. In fact, it represents the singular moment in which that particular hand pressed that particular dirt against that particular wall. But, there's also this little side effect, an extra added bonus. That mark makes primal man aware of something he's been doing internally all along, but something he's never seen outside himself, something he experiences as totally new – abstraction. At that moment, or some moment like it, the natural process that the brain performs in sorting out the world makes its way to consciousness. The hand-print doesn't just represent, it _means_ , and what it means is hands in _general_. Take note. The world is composed of specific hands. Hands in general _do not exist_ in the world.

"So where exactly, are they? Where is that concept of 'hands'? You can't see it in the seen world. You can't touch it, in the tactile world. You can't sense it at all the way you sense any other thing. So where is it? In one grand sweep, the groundwork is laid for an _unseen_ world, full of abstracted hands, rocks, animals, entire mountains, all obeying, not the organizational order of the world, but the organizational order of the mind.

"The awareness of abstraction allows language to be created. If I had to use individual grunts for every big thing that came along, I'd run out of different grunts pretty fast. Now that I can talk about Big Things in general, I've got a language that can flourish. And that language not only flourishes, it shapes, enhances and ultimately dominates consciousness.

"Now our story skips ahead, chronologically, but not thematically. About 2500 years ago, the Hebrews had a problem. Usually, the creation of the universe involved the interaction of a male and a female deity. That's the way people and animals came about, why assume the universe was different? Anyway, the Hebrews had only one God and He was male. So, how do you explain how a "he" gave birth to the universe?

"To call their solution brilliant would be to do it an injustice. The male Hebrew God creates the universe through our old pal, language, He creates it by _speaking_. "Let there be light," God said. That act of creation by a male God _codifies_ a rift between the natural world and man that we have yet to undo. In the natural world, the seen world – the _female_ gives birth. If the unseen God creates differently, then the rules of _this_ world become _secondary_ to His. After all, _He_ can create or destroy the universe.

"The stage has been set for our wicked Aeon, but even in this model, the material, natural, seen world still has value. Watch carefully, Beth, because it's the _failure_ of the male God belief system that sets the trap in stone. Picture yourself in Ancient Judea. You're a member of a small, often besieged nation smack dab in the middle of a series of powerful empires. Anytime anybody wants to conquer something worthwhile, they have to come through you. But you're a tenacious, creative people, and you've got this book, written, you believe, by the same male god who "wrote" the world. The book explicitly states that God will keep the nation safe from enemies. You follow the book as best you can, then disaster strikes anyway. Ultimately, the nation, God's nation, is wiped out. Gone. As you sit there in your Babylonian prison camp how can you help but conclude that your God must have failed.

"Yet, if God fails, how do you keep the faith, the work, the body of the culture, your own sense of self, alive? You either give up, or you grope, you re-imagine, you invent another possibility, but what? Supposed God didn't fail, suppose _we_ failed to read the book correctly. If it's God's word, _it_ must be right. It must say something other than what we thought it did. We _misread_ the text.

"That desperate, stunning, creative leap had two crucial results: a) the text can no longer be altered or added too, since no one understands it; and b) the text can no longer be read at face value, since that mode has proven invalid. With the nation visibly destroyed, God's unseen world becomes not only more important than the seen world, it becomes the _only_ world of importance.

"So maybe the nation really is fine, it's just somewhere I can't see it, in the heart and mind of God. What does this mean for me, for the self? Remember, the unseen world was generated by abstraction, by naming. If it has a name, logically, it has a place in God's unseen world. "I" have a name, but what does it mean? "I" means me, my body, my mind, but what if I lose an arm – is that arm me or not me? Is Hapax something that can be torn apart and made unrecognizable?"

Here, Hapax paused a moment, briefly remembering where he was.

"Yes," he said shakily, "Of course he can. Everything changes, everything dies. In the seen, natural world, not only can a dissolution of self occur, it _must_ occur. But in the unseen world, everything, including my name remains whole, untouched, untouchable. As a thinking, feeling creature, I fear death and seek survival, yet I know, practically, that death is inevitable. How do I survive that knowledge without going mad? Just as the Hebrews re-invented God, I re-invent my self. I change from having a name, to _being_ a name, thereby acquiring for myself the permanence of abstraction, a.k.a., my immortal immutable _soul_ , or essence. That without which I would not be that which I am.

"Now what am I? My name, my soul, cannot be seen. Whatever I am is completely separate from the natural world. I can no longer look at the trees or the sky or the oceans and say "this is where I came from." I can no longer say, "all of what I am is from the world, so the world _must_ be like me in some way." I am severed at the root from my true home. I have identified myself, the most important part of myself, not with the seen world, but with the abstract map in my head. Now I must learn to love my map above the world. I must learn to get blood from a stone.

"And thus the misogynist male dominated language gave birth, by its own contradictions, to the mind-body dilemma that has left Western Science and Culture staring at itself in a mirror for over two thousand years. In short, we wound up mistaking our poor representation of the world, a lesser world, if you will, as all maps are less than the terrain they seek to express, for an unseen, Greater world. What seems most perfect is actually most imperfect. What seems most divine is actually the most banal. A topsy-turvy situation that has forever been the bane of man, but a simple enough, attractive enough, mistake, no?

"That's the Aeon we're trapped in, the deepest one I can guess at, the one that informs and rules us, the one we've worshipped as God, the one that's convinced it is God. He's a dark version of Yahweh and Jesus, twisted by time and misunderstanding. He is old, very old, and for thousands of years he has fought for his immortality in the face of legions, and he will continue to fight, with his claws in each of us, against any notion that might bring him back into the world, because once back in the world, he knows he must die. So he tells us the world is not important, so he tells us the world will end. Fire and brimstone, earthquakes and floods. Apocalypse, Armageddon, Ragnarok. It is a notion that infuses every single fundamentalist belief system, up to and including the UFO cults of today. Do you know what the aliens whisper into the ears of their abductees? That the world will end. Do you know the really big, _revolutionary_ leap my Great Work makes? Do you know why it's so successful? Because it says, and this is the only thing it says clearly, that the world _won't_ end. That's it, that's all. And damn it, it's just us, it's western. There's nothing like it in Asia, India or Africa. No fall from the Garden, no end of the world, no awareness of the triumph of death in the material world. 3,000 years old and we can't even believe in tomorrow. The Aeon we're stuck in is an obscene, destructive thing. And when the language dies, the only good that will come of it is that it may take this monster with it.

"Even the story I've told you is fundamentally flawed. It's not history, it's not specifics. It's Aeons at best. When I say primal man, I don't mean one naked guy who hasn't found his fig leaf yet. I'm talking about old patterns that have re-shaped themselves time and time again so that they always appear new, I'm talking tendencies in behavior, impossible to measure, symbols, structures. I said the Hebrews because I found the words of the Old Testament prophets most moving. I could have said Amenhotep IV, who invented Aton, the one god of the Egyptians who created the world by masturbating, I could have said Plato, who first spoke of the realm of the Perfect Forms, or Descartes, who imagined the real world in his head and the false one ruled by an Evil Genius. I could have said a dozen names of a dozen cultures or a dozen men and been wrong every time. None of them was the source of the Aeon, but each saw it, voiced it. I don't really know what its ultimate source is. It's entirely possible that this Aeon only _thinks_ its 2500 years old, or that's the only way I can see or understand it, or that it began with industrialization or with the first Atomic Blast or that he really was there in the shadows when that first hand pressed against the cave wall. Time itself might be an Aeon. I don't know. I do know that unlike our vision of this mad unseen, immutable creature, Aeons exist as part and parcel of our world. They're in our brains, constructs with physical reality, and heaven, Beth, heaven is a state of mind."
13. A light on in the attic

She wanted to believe she was remembering everything exactly the way it was. Their faces, the old couch, the upholstered chairs, the rug-whose-color-could-not-be-named, the very smell of the place (though she didn't recall it being quite so strong) even some of the stains on the ceiling, all set off strange resonances in her head that could easily be taken for familiarity, were it not for the fact that none of it seemed real. The entire house, and Hapax' parents with it, vibrated somewhere between cold hard fact and a buried sensation that could not decide if it was memory or dream. Regardless of how she felt about it, in point of fact, Beth really had been here, many, many years ago, and now she had returned.

"It's so good to see you, Beth," Mrs. Trigenomen said. Her face was old, deeply wrinkled, and her eyes had a cloudy, almost yellow, glaze over them.

"It's good to see you, too," Beth said, leaning forward to kiss her on the cheek. It felt cold. The ice in Mrs. Trigenomen's drink made a crinkling sound as she hugged Beth with her free hand.

Pulling softly back, Hapax' mother indicated a fat man sprawled in a reclining chair that seemed too small for him. His drink, identical to hers, sat on his belly, balanced by his right hand. Seeing Beth, he grabbed the drink and shifted about, as though he were trying to get up. As he did he looked at her kindly and made a little grunting noise that reminded Beth of a pig.

"My husband can't talk," Mrs. Trigenomen explained, grabbing her own throat in illustration, "Hapax damaged the vocal chords. Doctors said it would have healed by now, but he won't stop drinking."

She staggered over to her husband and slapped him on the leg.

"You shouldn't drink nothing!" she said to him.

He smiled and let out a series of happy grunts. Then he took a sip from his drink and grunted some more.

"Ah," Mrs. Trigenomen said, "What am I going to do with you? Do you remember Beth?"

He turned his head towards Beth and made a single, sharp grunt in acknowledgment.

"She used to date Hapax, remember?"

Another grunt, more insistent. Then he smiled. Beth nodded at him pleasantly, debating whether or not she had the stomach to give him a little kiss on the cheek. A loud, liquid belch decided her.

Mrs. Trigenomen slapped him again, a little harder this time, then turned back to Beth and said, "I remember you were just kids. I used to call you girlie. You were coming around here all the time, going to movies, hanging around. I couldn't sleep from wondering what you were up to. I was afraid you might get yourself pregnant or run off and get married or something, you know?"

"We never..." Beth began, but Mrs. Trigenomen stopped her with a wave of her bony hand.

"You were the only one, you know? With Hapax," she said.

Mr. Trigenomen grunted that indeed, it was true.

"That's the past, now here we are today, in the future, almost 2000," she said, looking off. At the end of a sigh, she turned back to Beth and said, "Can I get you a drink or something?"

"No thanks."

"You sure? I don't mean vodka or nothing. Too early for that," she said, laughing a little.

Beth shook her head, "I'm fine, really."

Mrs. Trigenomen's face went dead, "Please, a little soda or something. It'll give me something to do, like I'm a hostess, make me feel more comfortable."

"All right," Beth sighed, "Some soda would be nice."

When he saw his wife about to go into the kitchen, Mr. Trigenomen grunted and held up his half-empty glass of vodka.

"Oh, you. I'll get you a new one, too," Mrs. Trigenomen said. As she disappeared through the swinging door that led to the kitchen, Beth caught a brief glimpse of six or seven gallon-sized bottles of vodka lined up on the counter, some empty, some full.

Alone now, Beth turned to Mr. Trigenomen and thought of trying to communicate. One look at his expressionless stare changed her mind. Instead, she raised her voice, hoping she would be heard in the kitchen.

"Are you familiar with the Great Word?" she asked loudly.

"Sorry honey, I can't hear you. Just be a minute," Mrs. Trigenomen answered over the tinkling of bottles and glasses.

Mr. Trigenomen, his right hand still occupied with his glass, reached his left hand over to a little table by the chair and plopped it down on a newspaper. In a maneuver that was awkward at best, he crumpled enough of the paper into his single hand to successfully lift it.

Grunting with great significance, he thrust the mangled pile towards Beth. Fascinated, and a little frightened, Beth stayed silent. He grunted faster, shaking the paper, until she finally realized he meant for her to take it. Slowly, she leaned over and, with the caution one might use in taking meat from a lion, she took the wrinkled newspaper into her hands.

Settling back in her chair, she unfolded the mangled daily. Holding it was an odd sensation. She didn't realize it, but in the last few years, she'd forgotten what it was like to hold a newspaper. All her news came to her through the vile machine, on-line, complete with photographs and sometimes music. Usually she heard of things hours or even a full day before the print media could catch up.

The front page showed a huge picture of Calico at a recent rally. The bold print above her exclaimed, in a single word, "MIRACLE!"

Mr. Trigenomen grunted for her to read the accompanying article. She dutifully flipped the paper open and scanned a few lines.

"Yes," she said politely, "I know. The Church of the Ultimate Signifier says that Calico will perform a miracle on New Year's Eve, to usher in the year 2000."

Mr. Trigenomen nodded, then twirled the index finger of his free hand next to his temple, indicating that he thought they were crazy. Beth nodded her agreement. He took another sip of vodka and grunted happily.

Actually Beth knew quite a bit more about the New Year's Rally than she could say. The planned Miracle was a fake. The two undercover agents she had planted in the Church would be among those operating it. At the appropriate moment, they would gum up the works and spoil the evening.

The plan to sabotage the rally wasn't hers. It came from higher up. Beth was against interfering for two reasons. The first was that a variety of cases were being prepared against the Church, involving dispersal of funds, bribery and the buying and selling of government secrets. If the FBI were implicated in disrupting the rally, it might swing public support the wrong way, creating a bad atmosphere for trying the cases. As a matter of strategy, she felt they should avoid, at all costs, making the Church look like an underdog.

The second reason had to do with _When Prophecy Fails_. The sabotage operation was in place because the Bureau's powers-that-be were terrified by the new growth projections. By publicly embarrassing the church, they hoped to slow or even halt their growth. But, Beth, a voice in the wilderness, knew that historically, at least, the disconfirmation of belief-systems often had the opposite effect.

Oh, they were interested in what she had to say, and they read her papers, but in the end, common sense dictated their decision. Her credibility already stretched, she didn't dare tell them about Hapax, not without direct proof, which was why she was here.

Shortly, Mrs. Trigenomen reappeared, carrying three glasses on a bright red tray.

"Hapax gave me this tray," she said, setting one glass next to her husband, "when he was a boy. He was so happy then. I used to call him that, Happy."

She set a second glass, full of what looked like flat cola, in front of Beth, then sat opposite her. Beth picked up the glass and was about to take a polite sip when she felt something crusty on it. Looking at the glass, she saw a series of strange food-like particles clinging the murky surface. Hoping Mrs. Trigenomen wouldn't notice, she set the glass down and pretended to swallow.

"Are you familiar with The Great Word?" she asked again. Mrs. Trigenomen pretended not to hear.

"So what are you doing with yourself now, Beth?" she asked, smiling, "Married?"

"Uh, no. Actually, I'm with the FBI," Beth said apologetically.

Mrs. Trigenomen's eyes narrowed suspiciously. Mr. Trigenomen grunted loudly.

"Uh, I just do research, really," Beth said.

Mrs. Trigenomen's tone became even more cold and distant, "Of course, dear. That sounds like it pays well. Nice to see you doing so well."

Beth wasn't sure what the problem was. Were they upset that she was more successful than Hapax, or did they simply hate anything that had to do with the government?

"Are you familiar with the Great Word?" she tried yet again.

The response was terribly, drunkenly, formal.

"My husband and I don't traffic in the works of Satan, Miss Mansfield. Only God can make a tree, not some drunken slut."

Beth tapped her foot, then said, cautiously, "Did you know that Hapax claims he wrote it?"

There was an awkward silence. Briefly, Mr. Trigenomen's grunt-less but labored breathing was the only sound.

Sadly, Mrs. Trigenomen ventured, "They said he was getting better."

"Oh, he is, he is," Beth reassured her, "They've taken him out of the violent ward again, and they're lowering his dosage. I saw him last week and he was doing just fine. Mrs. Trigenomen, is it possible that he did write something, anything while he was here? I know he spent a lot of time up in the attic."

"No," she said, knocking back half her drink in a single gulp, "Nothing. It was all in Happy's head. Ten years he was up there, no work, no friends, no girl. Drugs. I think he was doing drugs. You know, Beth, things might have turned out a lot differently if you'd bothered to hang around."

Beth had no idea how to comfort her. She wasn't sure she wanted to.

"Could I, uh, take a look at his room?" she asked.

"Sure," Mrs. Trigenomen answered, obviously angry, "take a look. Go through our bedroom if you like, Miss FBI. There's nothing there, girlie."

"I think I remember where it is," Beth said, rising. No one said anything in response. Mrs. Trigenomen's head simply bobbed. Mr. Trigenomen stopped grunting.

Everything Hapax told her jived with the theories presented in The Great Word. If anything, Hapax seemed to have a better grasp of the material than Calico did. During press conferences, she often had to rely on Keech to answer for her. Still, that was not proof, not for Beth, and certainly not for her superiors.

As she pulled down the wooden stairs that led to Hapax' former kingdom, she wondered what might happen even if she did find proof. The Church was huge, and it was powerful even back when it was small. Could they successfully be brought up on charges of fraud, or the theft of intellectual property? They would settle out of court for millions, and no one would ever know. Still, the FBI would know, and at worst, Hapax would be vindicated. But would that make him _sane_?

She entered the musty, hot, cramped attic and looked around. It was empty, completely empty, cleaned out, no books, no notes, no computer, no furniture, just some old, empty liquor store boxes scattered here and there. The Trigenomens had made a clean sweep of their son's presence.

Hunching her shoulders, she walked around a bit and scanned the dusty wood floors, the tiny window and the tacked-on insulation, torn in one spot near a corner. Was there anything still here, anything at all, that two career alcoholics might have missed?

She should have told Hapax she was coming. He might have been able to direct her to some secret corner where he kept things squirreled away, but Dr. Gald insisted there be no mention of his parents.

She kicked at the floorboards to see if any were loose. No luck. Running out of ideas, she approached the torn insulation on the wall. Clumps of pink fiberglass stuck out from the hole, but nothing else. She put her hand in and felt around gingerly, afraid she might get a splinter, but again, there was nothing.

She was just about to turn towards the other wall, when an odd bump in the insulation, about two feet down from the hole, made her hesitate. It wasn't particularly unusual; the insulation was just bending out slightly as though it were up against an irregularity in the wall. Just to be sure, she pressed her hands against the bump. There was something there, something square and flat.

Pulling a pen-knife from her carry-bag, she made a neat, straight slit in the insulation, then pulled it open with her hand. When she shook it a little, a spiral-bound notebook fell to the floor, kicking up a bit of dust. Excited, she picked it up and started leafing through. It was full of hand-written notes and diagrams, all in Hapax' hand. She turned to one entry and started reading.

So Strange – I've been talking about real selves and false selves and truth and honesty, and here I am looking at the notes in this book and thinking – no this isn't me who wrote that line, this is some character I invented, some convenient face to present. But this line, this one over here, ah – _that's_ the real me – the true me. But if I stare at it long enough, and think about it, I realize that no, no matter how sincere it was when I wrote it, it's just another fiction I've conjured for myself - that all of my selves, even, maybe especially, what I call the _true_ self – are all inventions.

She turned the page and read some more.

That last one, for example, started out as a fiction disguised as the truth, but midway through, it became a note about me, so I disguised it by the end, as a fiction. The fear is, I suppose, that somehow the fictions are greater than my true self to begin with.

Was he crazy? Frantic, obsessed, self-conscious, detached, sometimes violent. Of course he was crazy, but was he _just_ crazy? She closed the book and pondered. There was a lot of writing there – nothing yet that proved he wrote the book. Maybe some vague coincidences. Too much for her to figure out now, maybe too much for her to ever figure out. She was dying to know what to believe, and not a clue.

As she opened the book again, a small piece of paper fell out. For Beth, the most intriguing thing about the drawing wasn't the philosophical relevance, it was the fact that the exact same illustration also appeared on page 306 of the Great Word. She carefully folded the map of reality and placed it in her carry-bag.
14. I am Forever

On December 31, 1999, by 11:30 P.M. the brazen blue moon was as swollen as the packed stadium beneath it. All across the Western world, believers and non-believers alike turned away from their revelry, towards their television and computer screens, eager to usher in the year 2000 with a miracle.

Hidden beneath the central stage, Bud Bean gave final instructions to the three men whose loyalty was matched only by their expendability.

"Don't touch anything. Just watch Calico and make sure the timer releases the gas at 11:55. If not, use the manual lever. It'll take five minutes to build up enough for an even combustion, then the automatic ignition will kick in. Are we all clear on that?"

One devoted follower of Calico and two undercover agents nodded.

Bean smiled, "I'm out of here, boys. Praise be... uh, Calico! And Happy New Year!"

Saluting, he exited, sealing the door shut behind him. As he made his way to his private viewing box, Bean wondered if those loyal fools, chosen for their apparent lack of family and friends, had any idea the gas was mixed with poison and they'd be dead by midnight. The igniting flames would burn the gas off harmlessly. A pity they couldn't use remotes, but the media and the government was everywhere. The signal would surely be uncovered and traced. Ah, the price of miracles.

Miles away, Hapax Trigenomen lay on his hospital bed, happy to be off all the medication at last. Something had happened, he wasn't sure what, but he suspected his new-found freedom was due, at least in part, to Beth. He knew about the rally, but wasn't allowed to watch it. Given his history, Hapax agreed with Doctor that it probably wasn't a good idea.

He looked around his little room and thought what an odd place it was to be ushering in the year 2000. As for the rally, he wondered what miracle they would use. A crying statue? No. The face of the new god? No. Something to do with light, maybe a ring of fire. He felt a twinge of disappointment that his opinion hadn't even been asked.

At the stadium, the lights dimmed. The huge crowd grew utterly silent.

On the steps to the stage, Keech hungrily watched the bright flood-lights fade into cool moonlight.

Calico, dressed in her special moon-beam gown, all in white, loved the darkness, loved the moon. She bathed in it, twirling this way and that, completely captivated by the ghostly hue it gave the world. She'd almost forgotten she was supposed to speak, until a voice made her stop her dance.

Don't dawdle, child.

It was trying to sound severe, but Calico knew it was really a very nice voice. It tickled her almost as much as the words in the book. But where was it? Inside her? In the crowd? Calico couldn't be sure, but when she mounted the steps up to the stage and took her place behind the microphone, she would swear it was the moon talking. Hanging right above her, it seemed to be shining, just for her.

She exhaled and smiled. On a glass teleprompter, some carefully chosen words from the Great Word began to hover in front of her. She giggled a little when she saw them.

Go ahead, child.

Calico nodded and started to read.

"When I speak, does my voice start in my throat or in my heart? Does it end at the edge of my lips or fly to every place there is air? If I laugh or cry or dream out loud, is it only me, or is there something more?"

I'm sorry I raised my voice.

"When I raise my hand," Calico said, holding it up to the moon, "does it end at the tip of my finger, or is there a line that continues past it, up into the sky and onto the moon? If I move, or shake, or twist it, is it only my hand, or does something else sweep through the heavens for a million million miles?"

I had to, because I'm your mother.

A few blocks away, in a black van loaded with surveillance equipment, Beth turned to A. D. Edison and made one last attempt to dissuade him.

"You're making a mistake with this," she said.

"Our superiors don't think so. They're convinced it may be our only chance to stop the Church from dominating the next elections," he answered.

"There's still the book. We have proof Calico didn't write it," she ventured.

"Paper, Beth, just paper. If this thing happens tonight, paper won't matter. No one will believe it. There are ten lawsuits by "authors" of the book already. The only thing the faithful will understand is a broken promise," he explained.

She was about to repeat her fears that the faithful did not understand a broken promise, that sabotaging the miracle might only increase their numbers and the Church's influence, but Edison knew all that already, so she bit her lip and watched. He turned to a microphone and said, "Send the signal."

Back at the stadium, Keech had more immediate problems. Calico wasn't reading the text anymore, she was paraphrasing. She'd never done that before. She shouldn't be capable of doing that. It could prove catastrophic, but what could he do? Pull her off stage? The crowd would turn on him, on Keech, in an instant and that wouldn't do at all. Keech watched, refusing to believe he was helpless, while something in him growled.

"When I feel my life," Calico said, "do all the longings, the fears, the loves, the hates, the hopes, the dreams begin and end with me, or is there something else that stretches beyond this body, back to the beginning of time and on ahead into forever, where every pain is abated, every need met and every moment a delirious song? Is it death or happiness that is inevitable?"

Look at me when I'm talking to you, baby.

Calico looked up at the moon. Its whiteness ate her face.

"Look at the world, is it blue or white? Look at yourself. Are you me, or are you you? I see myself in all of you. I know myself through you. I mix with you and know there is no single body, no single time, no single life or death. Look at me. Look back at me. Mix with me."

There is no reason to cry anymore.

"Don't begin or end. Find yourself in me," Calico begged.

There is no pain anymore.

She turned back to the audience, moonlight where her eyes once were.

" _There is no death here. I am forever_ ," Calico and the voice said.

At one at last with the sounds only she could hear, Calico threw her head back and said, in a monotone, " _When I die the ocean will take my flesh and it will get sucked up_ _into the clouds and rained down on the earth and eaten by the corn and the cows and the babes until the earth burns and we are all made into stars but not my bones my bones will stay on the bottom for the mermaids to find and they'll take them and make flutes from my legs and arms and chimes from my ribs and a drum from my skull and they will play and play and the music will be so beautiful the angels will laugh and weep_."

Keech was livid. That last bit wasn't in the book at all. She was supposed to announce her immortality. That was the big secret. Press releases had already being sent. He tried to stay calm. Perhaps they could put a spin on it. She did say something about forever. Maybe that was close enough. Yes, that would work. But now, what was the bitch-whore doing? She was supposed to point at the spot on the ground where the ring of green fire would appear. Instead, laughing and dancing, she swept her hand back and forth across the sky. And where was the ring? What in heaven's name was going on?

Noticing that the timer had failed, down below, one of the three tried to flip the lever that would set off the display. This was no problem for his faith. He knew that even though he didn't understand what she was saying exactly, the real miracle had already taken place. Right there, before the eyes of millions, Calico had joined the Aeons and become immortal. He was still quite surprised when his two co-workers wrestled him to the ground, hand-cuffed him, then proceeded to shut down the equipment.

"Mission accomplished," Edison said to Beth, "Let's see her make a miracle now."

Keech's heart fought to leap out of his chest. His teeth gnashed. His hands clenched. Calico was pointing and shaking and the crowd was staring and staring. Where was the ring of light? He scanned the steps, the crowd and the sky, unable to admit that he didn't know what to do. Come on, damn you! He screamed silently to the world. Something has to happen! Something has to happen now!

The clock struck the hour, the year 2000 began. As the sound of distant whistles and horns filled the air, the crowd in the stadium gasped. Some of them fell to their knees, some started to weep, but they all pointed, aghast at the sky above the girl's head. They pointed, in shock, in unison, at absolutely nothing.

At least nothing Keech could see.

"The moon!" someone screamed, "It's moving!"

Calico looked up at the light as it danced in tune with her hand, and laughed and laughed and laughed.

" _Mommy and I are one_ ," she giggled, in a voice no longer quite so young.

*

"This is rich, Keech!" Molloy guffawed as he flipped through the news reports.

"Your highness," Bensen announced, "I have yet another miracle to report!"

"You may speak," Keech said, nodding.

Bensen flipped back to the first page of the memorandum and solemnly intoned, "Two FBI infiltrators have been caught, red-handed, attempting to interfere with our rally! I am instructing our lawyers to immediately begin proceedings against this corrupt administration! It seems, gentlemen, that God is with us!"

Bud Bean was flabbergasted, "Well somebody is! We certainly pulled that one out of a hat! When midnight hit and that green ring of light was nowhere to be seen, I was ready to turn state's evidence! All hail Albert Keech!"

Laughing, the men cheered their leader, who, drunk now, did little but nod. When they finally stopped to catch their breath, an oddly somber wave settled in.

"Keech," Molloy asked, honestly expecting an explanation, "How did you make the moon move?"

Keech waved his brandy glass in an arc, then pointed at his head, "Will power. I've got them so convinced, their little patchwork minds provided its own miracle. Like the visions at Fatima."

Dissatisfied with the response, Mannon rose, "I don't know, Keech. We all act like this is some kind of big fake, like Calico's a tool and we're pulling the wool over everyone's eyes, getting away with murder, but after tonight, I'm starting to think that maybe _we're_ the tools, and Calico's real."

Keech's face twisted hideously. Molloy ducked as Keech's glass shattered against the wall near his head. It didn't matter. It only missed because Keech wanted it to miss.

"You would all do well to remember," he snarled, "That the only real thing here is me!"

Silent, sullen, they stared at him for a little while. Figuring they were all drunk and tired, they rose and, one by one, shuffled towards the private elevator that led out of the penthouse suite. The newly remodeled Paradise Regained was the largest hotel the church had purchased, and a perfect place for their victory party.

Holding back the rest of his rage, Keech watched them fade out of sight and out of mind. Fools. This was Keech's plan, Keech's idea, Keech's structure, Keech's strength. Just like the Company had been, just like they all had been. Even Michael, especially Michael. Mad little Calico with the cute little butt was a figure-head, nothing more. They'd see soon enough. Fools.

Some drops of brandy on the shattered pieces of glass picked up the light from the rising sun. He imagined he tasted them and told himself it was success. Then, a little sigh from the bedroom reminded him who else was there. Curious to see her, he walked to the bedroom and opened the door. This wasn't his townhouse anymore. There was no promise of sanctuary.

She stood by the window, still wearing her moonbeam gown, which now glowed pink from the dawn. She hadn't said a word since the rally.

As she turned to him, smiling, and asked if he was pleased with her, he felt himself harden. She struggled as he threw her down on the bed, but not a lot. He ripped off her moonbeams, groped at her breasts, spread her legs with his arms and plunged himself into her. He was huge now, impossibly big, bigger than even he could ever have imagined. She gave a little whimper at first, then stopped.

When Calico was a baby, they never asked her if she wanted to eat. They just put a spoon into her mouth again and again, as though what she wanted didn't matter in the slightest. Here was that spoon again. She was hungry at first, and she moaned with pleasure, pulling him into her faster and harder, but after a while, she was full and didn't want anymore, and she pounded and scratched at his back, but he didn't stop, and she was afraid she would throw up, but he didn't stop.

When her impish squeals of pleasure gave way to desperate cries of pain, he decided they just weren't real. He just thought to himself, yes, I can go on forever; yes, I can fuck forever; yes I can live forever; yes, there is no difference between myself and God.
15. Aftershock

After he heard about the miracle, Hapax wouldn't speak to anyone, even Beth, for three days. Finally, on the third afternoon, as he sat on his nice white bed, with his arms crossed over his lap and his head bent down towards his knees, Beth grabbed him, shook him and screamed "Hapax!" so loudly it hurt his ears.

He looked at her and screamed back, "All right! I don't know why 30,000 people saw the moon move, or why half the people who watch the video-tape see it, too."

"What do you mean you don't know?"

"I mean I don't know. I mean this is completely beyond me. Some things are, y'know? I mean, it's a fucking miracle! God be praised! OK?"

"Could it have been faked ?" Beth asked, hoping he would say yes.

"I don't see how. It was the _moon_ for pity's sake!" Hapax shrugged. He wrapped his hands around his knees and pulled them towards his chest for comfort.

She paced the perimeter of the bed.

"Isn't there anything, anything at all in your book or your plan or somewhere in your head that could remotely account for this?"

Hapax picked his head up again and grinned.

"My book. You called it my book. You know, don't you?" he asked, his face frozen in a funny, expectant grin.

She hemmed and hawed a bit, but ultimately decided to ignore the question, knowing full well he would read complicity into her silence. She stared out the window at the bars that crisscrossed her view of the grounds. There was so much to do and so little time.

"Can you tell me this, then," she said, turning back to him, "Can you tell me what these people believe in? I mean, I kind of understand all this stuff about the structure of God and the language and the coming of the new Aeon, but what is it these people believe in, morally? Tens of millions of followers and not one can vocalize the basic principles of the movement beyond a vague sense of internal freedom."

Sensing her fear, Hapax looked at her sadly, "I don't know what they believe morally, or that they believe _anything_ specifically, but I'll bet that the movement encompasses both right to lifers and pro-choicers, both bigot and liberal. It does not pass judgment. At least, not yet."

Beth nodded. He was right.

"That's how I planned it. See, the language doesn't die easy. It just grows more and more complex, more fractured, until we reach a point like today, where anyone who seems to make a little bit of sense, not too much mind you, is instantly worshipped as a leader, a hero, and in some cases a messiah. It's much easier to fall to your knees in front of someone and say, "Please! Take care of me!" than it is to actually listen to what they have to say," Hapax said, staring sadly at the white walls of his room.

Beth eyed Hapax, the man with the plan that had already changed the world, and grew angry.

"What was this all about, Hapax? What did you want your book to do, make you an object of worship? Were you hoping to become an Aeon?"

He turned to her sheepishly, "People can't become Aeons, Beth, any more than a brick can become a house. As for being an object of worship, do I look like a messiah? Evoking intense emotion from a large number of people is a very, very dangerous thing to do. People will kill you for that. Me, I was more than content to sit in the background and collect checks."

"And hire some charismatic actor to "play" messiah?"

"Something like that. Not a trained actor, though. Someone special. Someone who almost understood. Someone it would have been difficult to find. Someone just like Calico."

"And the miracle?"

"Like I said, God be praised."

"Have you seen the video?"

"Nope, Doctor won't let me. To tell you the truth, I think he's right."

"Well," she smiled, "that's a risk we'll have to take. I brought a copy."

She stepped briefly into the hall and shortly returned with a television set on a cart. Hapax felt a wicked sense of freedom as he recognized it.

"That's from the Rec Room," he said as she plugged it in, "Won't the others miss it?"

Beth shook her head. "They barely noticed it was gone."

She pulled a cassette from her carry-bag and popped it into the machine.

"Does Doctor know the book is mine?" Hapax asked.

"He's already working on your release," she said, trying to find the "On" button. Noticing the trouble she was having, Hapax hopped off the bed, walked up to the machine and pressed a small button on it. A red light, above the word POWER, came on.

Beth turned to him, "You have no idea how big the church has gotten. We've got to be very careful how we proceed. If Keech gets word of who you are, you'll be in great danger."

"As opposed to the peace and safety I've experienced here?" Hapax said.

Without batting an eye, Beth answered, "Yes."

Hapax shook his head, "You don't understand. I don't care who Keech thinks he is, he's a man riding the back of a tiger. He might think he can steer, but..."

"He's crazy, Hapax," she said.

"Who isn't?" he shrugged.

"For starters, let's just watch the tape, okay? I think it's about time you saw exactly what Hapax hath wrought."

Hapax nodded and pressed PLAY. The television came to life, showing a clear image of the stadium.

"I recorded this off-line through the Bureau. It's a live feed from the network HDTV cameras. They tell me you can't get a better image," she explained, "If it was there and it's visible, it should be on this tape."

Hapax wasn't listening anymore. Instead, he was staring at the screen, at the packed stadium, at the thousands of awed followers. His heart started palpitating, his hands began to shake. He laughed. This expectant, enthralled mass of humanity had all read his book. All of them. A few tears rolled down the side of his cheeks. It had worked, it had worked, it had worked! The Great Work was a success! Beaten, broken and bleeding, Hapax Trigenomen had fallen into the Promised Land, if only for a moment. Dizzy, he slowly stepped back towards his bed. Beth helped him sit down.

"I'm not crazy," he said, watching the crowds, "At least I'm not _just_ crazy."

Before she realized what she was doing, Beth leaned closer and stroked the hair near his temple. His eyes remained glued to the set as Calico read his words.

"She's perfect," he said, still smiling, "Familiar, too. She looks like a bag lady in my neighborhood. Someone I used to watch from the window."

"She _is_ a bag lady from your neighborhood," Beth said, "I think that's how she found the book."

"Hey wait a minute, that last bit wasn't from the book. What are they, editing me?" Hapax said, brow furrowing.

Beth hushed him, "The miracle's coming up."

There was a loud sound from the speakers, a combination of thousands of gasps and shrieks, howls of joy, tears and screams. The camera wobbled as the cameraman loosened the tripod. The image spun and shook, then all at once they were staring at the full-orbed moon. The cries continued on the sound-track, louder, more impassioned. The camera zoomed back to show the moon and the tip of the stadium. There was a buzz of technical conversation, but all the while in the background, pandemonium.

Hapax furrowed his brow. It was nothing, just the moon, but everyone was so excited. Why? It was nothing he had planned on, nothing he had thought of. Personal miracles were always a possibility when the individual ego met with the Aeons, but this was just bizarre.

"What do you see, Beth?"

"It doesn't matter. What do _you_ see?"

"Nothing. Just the moon. Unless..."

"Unless what?"

"Nothing. It's ridiculous."

"This is all ridiculous."

"For a moment, I thought I could convince myself that I saw it move. Maybe you only see it when you believe it."

"Mass hallucination?"

"No. Yes. I don't know."

"Couldn't it be some sort of large scale variation of the same principle in _Prophecy_. They all see it because they need to, because they have too much emotion invested in believing?"

"Maybe, or maybe it's like Nietzsche said, the abyss also stares back. If my book works, if it does open an internal road to the Aeons, maybe this is _their_ doing."

*

Back at headquarters, Beth entered Edison's office expecting to discuss how to proceed with Hapax. When she saw the half-empty bottle of scotch on her supervisor's desk, though, she knew something was terribly wrong.

"Can I offer you a drink, Agent Mansfield?" he asked somberly.

"No, thank you," she said, sitting down.

Before she could say anything else, he leaned forward and said, "I don't know any good way of saying this, but we're closing down your operation."

"What?" she said, standing.

"Your undercover men, Agents Williams and Pirsig were caught by Church security. They're suing the government. It's all over the papers."

"But they had a cover story! There was no way they could be traced back to the Bureau!"

"They saw the moon move, Beth. From their little peephole under the stage, they saw the fucking moon move and they converted and they talked. And they're not the only ones being born again. Everyone was watching that broadcast, everyone, from the Speaker of the House to the President himself, and that includes a lot of our top people. Rumor has it that our beloved Bureau Chief is now an initiate in the Church of the Ultimate Signifier, and there's worse news coming down the pike. It's been three days and we still don't have a clear count on how many conversions there were. We are shut down," he said, taking a swig from his glass.

Beth felt the bottom of her stomach drop.

Edison leaned back, glassy-eyed.

"Beth, I think the most difficult part of life is figuring out when you can and should do something, and when the situation has just gotten beyond the powers of mere mortals. I know Keech is as dirty as they come, hell, he's a maniac, but he's got us and the country by the balls. There's only so much this agency can do. So, my thirty years here tell me, in my gut, that this is one of those things we'll just have to let go. I've got a job and a family. The country has seen and survived worse than Keech and his church, and I'm sure he won't be the last of his type. Maybe next time we can take him down, but this time, I'm afraid, your investigation has been officially closed."

Beth looked around, trying to find her voice. There were a thousand questions spinning in her head, but only one made it out.

"What about Hapax?" she asked.

"Get him the hell out of that hospital as fast as you can. Tell him to change his name and forget he ever wrote anything."

*

"What kind of nonsense is this?" Dr. Gald asked Chief Psychiatrist Farrow.

"Since you didn't seem to understand it the first time, I'll repeat it. The FBI's research at the hospital has been concluded. Agent Mansfield will not be returning. Secondly, there is no solid medical evidence that Mr. Trigenomen's delusional patterns have abated. So, your request to have him released has been denied. Further, it is my feeling that in this case your objectivity has been seriously compromised. Mr. Trigenomen will be placed back on his medication and immediately transferred to the Violent Ward where he will be placed under the care of Dr. Webster," Farrow said, oddly pleased to be causing Gald such discomfort.

"You can't do this!" Dr. Gald shouted.

"Of course I can, Dr. Gald. I run this hospital. I can do whatever I want."

"That man is healthy, that man is my patient!" Dr. Gald protested.

"No, Dr. Gald. He is your patient no longer," Farrow assured him.

"I won't let go of this! I'll bring it up to the board! I'll have your license!"

"Please, try to bring it up to the Board. I think you may be surprised at the result." the hospital head said laughing.

As Dr. Gald stormed out, his blood pressure still rising, Chief Psychiatrist Farrow leaned back in his chair and let his mind fill with calming thoughts about the beautiful, peaceful, dancing moon.
16. Okay, so maybe I'm not forever...

As she tentatively trudged down the hall to her office, distracted and disturbed, idly saying "Hi" to familiar faces, Beth Mansfield realized that she didn't really know anyone at all. She'd seen her-co-workers often enough to recognize them. She'd spoken with them often enough to feel comfortable around them, but now she knew that all the little assumptions she'd made about each of them were guess-work at best. Behind even the most recognizable eyes was a cipher as old as humanity.

How many saw the moon move? She had no way of knowing. She knew she hadn't. To her it was just what it had always been, the beautiful still-moon, beating down with indifference on snake-oil salesman and priestess alike. Even when the crowd first rose from their seats, weeping, impassioned, she thought them all utterly mad. Now she felt surrounded. She couldn't help but wonder if, perhaps it was she, always she, who'd been the odd man out.

The brief hope that her office might provide some comfort vanished as she entered. There was nothing different. Even the computer seemed the same for a change. But the normalcy, the terrible dailiness as she once called it, was gone. Dizzy, distressed, she sat behind her desk and picked up the thing closest to her. It was a pencil, a yellow pencil. As she stared at it, trying to see where it began and ended, she thought she was experiencing the start of a nervous breakdown, a complete mental collapse. She wondered whether or not this yellow pencil was the last thing her mind would ever comprehend.

It wasn't the fact that people were changing that rattled Beth, it was the fear that they had always been different from her. There were no prejudices for her to cling to, here, no judgment available with which she could appraise them. They weren't just gullible types or superstitious types or sad and needy types. Presidents and peasants alike were joining the Church of the Ultimate Signifier. Their membership cut across all age groups, all socioeconomic classes, all levels of education, all, all, all. All because of Hapax and his stupid book.

Hapax. He was still in the hospital. She had half a mind to leave him there, but her report was already logged into the main system. How would a believer react to her proof that Hapax had written the Word? Not well, she imagined. Then there was the question of what Hapax would do back out in the world on his own. Would Beth's favorite mad genius do the sensible thing and shut-up? No, and without the FBI, without her to protect him...

Deciding that it was at least something to do, she reached for the phone, then quickly realized it was gone. The pencil snapped in her hand. Just before she growled in frustration, she remembered the computer now had a phone in it. She glared at it, grateful that it at least, had remained simply vile. She fired up the dreaded beast and forced herself to wait patiently through its booting procedure.

"Hey, Baby, this is the king. You have one new message with an A/V file attached," the computer said in a synthesized Elvis-voice. Someone had been tampering with her settings.

Eyebrow raised, she was about to ignore the gregarious king and try to dial Dr. Gald when the message name caught her eye. It said, simply, "Keech." Apparently word had not reached Glen or Ken or whatever his name was in the Computer Division that the investigation was over. Pressing a few keys, she managed to access the message. It said:

Beth – just before the project was shut down, one of our hacks managed to break into Keech's personal system and downloaded the following – it's terrifying. Still, looks like Prophecy was wrong on this one. A hundred million strong and no disconfirmation. I don't believe this moon nonsense – do you? - Ben

Curious now, Beth clicked on the A/V file. Some cheery music filled the air as the Official Logo of the Church of the Ultimate Signifier filled the screen. A tag line indicated the file was confidential and presented as part of the "Campaign 2002" proposal, whatever that was. After a moment, the screen cleared and a small image of Keech appeared, dressed in a smart suit, and standing in front of an American flag.

"What's he doing, running for president?" Beth thought. Then she realized he was.

As the little computer screen Keech smiled benignly, something flashed quickly in the right corner of the screen. She assumed it was some sort of glitch, but whatever it was continued intermittently throughout the presentation.

"My fellow Americans," he began, "We live in an invented nation. We have no natural history. We are not indigenous to the region. The founding fathers invented this nation, this democracy, and we, we came from all over, to live and take root in their idea, the idea that the world can be made new again. But today we are trapped in a cycle of materialism and violence, a cycle reinforced and propelled by the notion that the race for financial success is tantamount to existence. The American Aeon remembers its obligation to reinvent the world, but it has forgotten how.

"Our politicians are helpless bureaucrats hemmed in by special interests and the sin of appearances. Our proud law enforcement officials are caught like flies, trapped by the illusion of the power of force, helpless in the face of problems for which force has no solution. Yet, like our forefathers, any man among us, any woman, can reinvent our country in a moment, provided they have the courage to stand apart and the conviction to live out our lost ideals in spite of the appearance of hardship it brings – by living in spite of death.

"Calico has done that for us. She rose above our image of what mortality should be and is now reborn in each of us. Today, countless Americans are following her example, unearthing their own buried hearts. Today, I pledge, with your help, that I will try to do the same for our nation, to re-awaken our proud Aeon, to live by it, for it and beyond it, as your next president."

Beth stared wide-eyed and open-mouthed as the sequence ended. The strange flashing continued in the right corner as the image of Keech faded to black. Breathing quickly, she slapped the pause key and looked down at her hands. They were shaking. He couldn't win, could he? Yes, of course, he could.

This was too much for her. She was a researcher. She was sorry she had ever even joined the Bureau. All she ever learned about were things she was helpless to change. If only she'd been a teacher, or an artist, she'd be living her life somewhere else, comfortably unaware of civilization's rise and fall. Half-seriously she wondered what cruel Aeon had carried her to this fate. Too late. All done. She had unlocked the secrets of the world. She knew what would happen next.

Or did she? Suppose Keech did win? Suppose the Church did become the dominant religion? We've survived worse, Edison had said. What would it matter to a farmer or a construction worker, so long as the sun rose and people continued to live in buildings? What kind of crime was this, if any?

She picked her head up and looked at the paused image on the screen. Her finger had accidentally caught the first frame of one of those funny glitches. It wasn't quite legible, but she thought she could make out the beginning of a word. She closed her eyes, inhaled and grabbed the manual, desperate to find out if there was a "frame advance control." As it turned out, a simple click on a double arrow in the corner moved the video ahead one frame. Now she could see it clearly. It wasn't a glitch at all. It was a short sentence. Ages ago, Beth had read about subliminal messages. They were meant to be disregarded by the conscious mind, but perceived on a deeper, subconscious level which supposedly influenced the observer's behavior. They were popular in advertising. Apparently Keech planned to bring them into politics.

The sentence said: _Come, recognize yourself in me._

It was the opening of one of Calico's speeches. It appeared on bumper stickers and buttons everywhere. Beth reversed the sequence frame by frame, until a second message appeared: _Feel the need, find the power_.

And then a third: _Calico lives._

That made her stop. What did it mean? What would Calico be doing if not living?

Then it hit her. Keech _had_ read _When Prophecy Fails_. He'd been following its theory all along. That was why the biggest megalomaniac of the century was content to stay in the background. He was waiting, planning, trying to push the Church to its limit _without_ a disconfirmation, so the pay-off, in proselytizing, in converts, would be huge.

And what would that disconfirmation be? It was simple, really. Beth cursed herself for not spotting it sooner. According to the press releases, on New Year's Eve, Calico declared herself immortal. All Keech had to do to ensure the complete domination of the church and the rise of his own prominence was to kill her.
17. The King of Things

"Hey, Baby, the king says you have a request from the Computer Section waiting," the synthesized Presley said to Beth's empty office. The message had repeated once every minute for thirty minutes now, and no one was answering. Across the building, Leonard, a young software installer, blew a raspberry in annoyance. Beth Mansfield was scheduled for today, but he also had ten more installations to make before lunch. Pushing away from his laptop, he called across the room.

"Ben, no answer from your girlfriend. Now what?"

"She doesn't like talking to me much either," Ben said, tapping a few keys on his keyboard, "Funny. She's logged in. Maybe she's in the bathroom. Head on up and install the program. Just make sure you save anything she's working on."

Leonard nodded and dutifully pushed his cart full of " _1,000 Words_ " packages out towards the elevator. Once he was sure Leonard was gone, Ben clicked a few more keys erasing her sign-in, deleting her phone log and giving her an extra personal day. He could always change it back, if necessary.

Miles away, at the rear entrance to the Jesus Ward, Beth stepped out of her car. The garbage piled in big blue bins made her hold her breath as she made her way to the darkened service entrance. The thick metal door was covered with one too many coats of cheap red paint. It didn't look like it could be opened, even with a key. She glanced at her watch then tapped on the door lightly with her car keys. With a loud, heavy squeak, the door did indeed open, and there stood a distraught Dr. Gald.

"I want to thank you for this," Beth began.

Gald held his hand up, "I don't see you. I don't hear anything you're telling me."

Beth nodded. She remained silent as they headed up the stairs to the violent ward. Hapax had already been transferred. Gald hoped there would be no witnesses, but peering out into the hall from the stairwell, he spotted two interns.

"Wait here a moment," Dr. Gald said. He stepped out into the hall and said something that Beth couldn't hear. The interns seemed a little surprised, but ultimately, they shrugged, turned and headed away. When Gald was certain they were gone, he returned to the stairwell.

"I'll meet you at the exit in exactly two minutes," he said, handing her a key. Then he vanished down the stairs.

The bottoms of her shoes seemed unbearably loud against the tile floor as Beth raced down the hall and unlocked the door to Hapax' room. At the sight of him, strapped tightly to his bed, she let out a small gasp. His face was covered again and eyes were glazed over from heaven-only-knew what. She quickly pulled the mask off.

Though groggy, Hapax recognized her immediately and said, "Beth, what the hell is going on?"

Not bothering to respond, she started removing the straps, as quickly as she could.

"What are you doing?" Hapax asked, genuinely confused.

"Getting you out of here," she said, "I'll explain later. There are some clothes for you in the car. We've got to hurry."

"Beth. Wait. Wait a minute. I've thought about it, and I'm not sure I should leave just yet. I don't think I'm quite ready to face what's going on out there," he said sadly.

She stared at him, incredulous.

"Hapax," she said, grabbing his face and staring into his eyes, "A lot has happened. The book is yours, okay? I think I know a way to make everything all right again. I am prepared to throw my career, and, quite possibly, my life away on the assumption that what I am about to do is somehow, in some way, the right thing, but I need your help. Are you with me?"

He thought about it, then pushed her hands aside and hopped off the bed.

"Okay," he said.

His legs were a little wobbly, so he had to lean on her as they made their way down the hall. By the time they reached the stairs, he was able to maneuver the steps mostly by himself.

At the exit, a silent Dr. Gald stood by, a few tears in his eyes. Seeing this, Hapax gave him a big warm hug and whispered, "Thanks. You take care of yourself now."

While Beth and Hapax made their way to the car, Dr. Gald slipped back into the hospital. He wondered how long he could delay Farrow's discovery of the empty room, but realized that whether it was an hour or a day, his time here was over. Oddly, Gald felt relieved, and more than a little grateful for the souls he'd encountered along the way.

Once they made their way into the city traffic, Hapax, breathing free air for the first time in many months, turned to Beth and said, "The hospital doesn't know I'm being released, does it?"

Keeping her eyes on the road, Beth said, "No."

Hapax was silent for a while. Then he turned to her and said, "This is some sort of FBI mission, right? I mean, your boss at the Bureau must know I've been released, right?"

Again, Beth did not move her gaze from the traffic as she said, "No."

Hapax nodded to himself.

"Uh, Beth?" he asked, "What's going on?"

"Half the world belongs to the Church now. The FBI investigation has been shut down, Keech is planning to run for president, and I have reason to believe he's going to have Calico killed sometime in the next two years," Beth answered.

Hapax nodded, "Okay, give me a minute, I'll catch up. Half the world, I understand. Investigation shut down, okay. President, okay. Calico killed. Why, why, why? The disconfirmation of her immortality, right? The succession of Keech. He wants it all. See, _I_ would never have been that greedy. Too dangerous. Excuse me, did you say your investigation was shut down?"

"Yeah, something like that," Beth said.

"Okay, your investigation was shut down, you broke me out of the hospital with Doctor's help..." he began, then his brow furrowed until Beth broke the silence.

"I've gone rogue," she answered.

Hapax looked ahead, then out the window, then at Beth.

"Where are we going, Beth?"

"The _Paradise Regained_. A four star hotel in the middle of town, one of six owned by the church with similarly beatific names. Tomorrow, Keech, Calico and the entire Church board of directors will be meeting there. It's surrounded by thousands of converts, but thanks to a friendly computer hacker I happen to know, I think we've got a room reserved, just below the penthouse suite."

"Go on."

"Well, it seems obvious that Calico's unaware of her impending death at Keech's hands, but why would she believe me? You two, however, can swap notes on the Great Word or Work or whatever. I'm going to try to get you together so you can convince her that you wrote the book, and that Keech is out to kill her. Then we sneak you both off to the press," Beth said.

Hapax leaned back and started laughing.

Beth looked at him, imagining she knew what he was feeling, and smiled, "Congratulations. Here's your chance to convince everyone you're sane."

Grinning, Hapax asked, "So, what's the difference between being sane and being able to convince people you're sane?"

"Well," Beth said, spying the crowds that surrounded the hotel, "I always thought it was the same as the difference between not being in pain and being able to convince people that you're not in pain."

"Touché, Agent Mansfield," Hapax said, thoughtfully, "Touché."

They ditched the car in an alley about twenty blocks south of the hotel. As Hapax looked on with concern, Beth removed and hid the license plates.

Within ten blocks, no traffic was permitted. People, in singles, groups, cliques and every other imaginable collection, filled each nook and cranny, drinking, talking, praying, dancing, chanting. It was as though New Year's Eve had never ended and the party had barely begun.

A block later, an arm from the crowd had jutted out and grabbed Hapax by the shoulder. Beth was certain the jig was up.

"Feel the need, find the power!" the reveler harmlessly intoned.

"I intend to," Hapax said, smiling back.

The hotel itself was cordoned off, forcing Beth to show her badge. To her relief, an officer simply nodded and waved them inside.

At the reservation desk she rolled her eyes and bit her tongue before giving the name the computer nerd decided to use. He had made the point that if he could find her via her mobile phone, anyone could, making the pseudonym necessary, though embarrassing.

"Fatima," she said to the clerk, "I have a reservation."

And, miraculously, they were admitted.

The Paradise Regained was, if anything, luxurious. Beth was impressed, but Hapax seemed awed. In the glass elevator, he insisted on pressing the button for their floor. In the hall, he almost broke into a run. Finally, upon seeing the room, Hapax blurted out, "This is amazing!"

He ran in, giddy as a school-child. Larger than his attic, more comfortable than the hospital ward, it was the finest place he'd ever seen. He rolled on the bed, tested the drawers and laughed when he found the little coffee maker.

"I don't know where to begin," Hapax said.

"Try the shower," Beth said, "You could really use it."

"There's a shower? Really?"

Beth rolled her eyes and pointed the way, hoping he wouldn't sing. By the time he stepped back out, wearing the complimentary terry-cloth bathrobe, Beth was curled up on the bed, cursing softly to herself as she tried to make sense out of the schematics of the building's elevator system that the computer geek had faxed her.

Hapax stepped over and dripped on the pages.

"Can I help?" he said absently. His gaze was already elsewhere.

"A private elevator leads straight up into the Penthouse," she explained, "I've got to figure out how to operate it without a passkey, so we can get in."

"We've got cable!" he said, beaming.

"Do you know anything about electronics?"

Not quite listening, he idly slid open the top drawer of the bureau and gazed inside. There, next to a copy of Gideon's Bible, was a copy of The Great Word. Eyeing him from the bed, Beth stood and slid the drawer shut.

"Don't let it go to your head, Hapax. The Church of the Ultimate Signifier owns this hotel," she said.

"What are they now? Ten? Twenty million strong?" he asked.

"Before the miracle, maybe fifty million. Now, I don't know. Nobody does," she said, "We've got a lot of time before the meeting tomorrow. Why don't you try to get some rest?"

"Rest?" Hapax said incredulously, "You must be joking. I've been asleep for months. A decade, if you ask Doctor."

"All right then, what do you want to do?" Beth said.

Hapax looked at her, made an odd face, then kissed her hard on the lips. She pulled away.

"Ask a stupid question," he said, shrugging.

She glared at him and paced around the room a few times as he watched. Throwing her hands up in the air, she kissed him back. The look on his face was so endearing she hugged him tightly. Then she pressed her forehead into his as though in the silence of the room she might finally hear what he was feeling. Hapax tentatively wrapped his hands around her waist and pulled her closer. Suddenly, he stopped and withdrew.

"Um... is that a gun in your pocket or are you just glad to see me?" he asked.

At first, she didn't know what he was talking about, then she remembered.

"Aw geez," she said, "it's a gun."

Hapax took a step back and said, "Excuse me?"

She smiled, slipping the holster off, "It's for tomorrow. Just in case."

"In case of what?" Hapax said.

Instead of answering, she put the gun in the drawer, between the Bible and the Word, then clicked off the lamp.

"In case of what?" Hapax repeated in the darkness.

Then he figured he could always ask her later.
18. Pseudo-man

As the awkward memory of their last meeting faded further to black, they encountered with relish each additional degree of their utter success. Eyes glistening, hearts light, heads giddy, they hoisted their glasses in joyous offering to their mentor and master, Albert Keech.

"Six million strong in South America," Molloy said, gleefully, "And we haven't spent a dime there."

"Any drop off in the convert rate?" Bensen asked.

"A straight and true fifty per cent, across the boards," Molloy read, doing a little dance with his hips, "Anyone who sees the moon move converts within a week."

"We've done it, Keech," Mannon said, his great frame sprawled on a couch, "We've climbed above the markets, above the governments. Hell, we've climbed above the whole bloody civilization. We've built that pyramid of yours. We've created a religion."

"Where's Calico?" Bean said, drunkenly, "She should be with us. Haven't seen her since the moon-dance."

"In her room. Tired, I'm afraid. It isn't easy being the Spiritual Mother of the new age," Keech said with a little smile.

Mannon giggled, "They've already started calling her 'Mother Calico.' Even the papers. All by themselves. It's a living thing. I feel like a daddy."

"It's a great and wondrous world that allows moments such as these," Bensen said, knocking back some more scotch.

"No, no," Bud Bean corrected, "it is a great and wondrous Keech that allows worlds such as these."

Agreeing, Keech slowly walked to the center of the room.

"I have another miracle to announce," Keech said, raising his glass. Thinking he was about to make some sort of toast, they raised their glasses in response.

Keech smiled, broad enough for his teeth to show, and said, "In a matter of moments, you'll all be seeing Michael again."

*

Directly below, at the sealed doors to the private penthouse elevator, Beth Mansfield worked frantically beyond her means.

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?" Hapax said in a terse whisper, "It's been fifteen minutes. Someone's going to find us."

"Shut-up and give me a minute!" Beth said. She was struggling with what seemed to be thousands of colored wires that bore no resemblance whatsoever to the schematics she'd spent hours studying the night before. Seeing no other choice, she made a leap of faith, cut two wires and crossed them.

"Okay," she said, "This should bring the elevator here."

Not knowing whether he should be relieved or frightened, Hapax patted her on the shoulder. A series of small sparks flew out of the exposed wires, threatening to start a fire on the hotel carpet.

"Shit!" Beth blurted, "Get an extinguisher."

"Wait a minute," Hapax said as he eyed the door.

With a slight mechanical whoosh, the doors opened. Confident, she smiled smugly at Hapax. He, however, was staring wide-eyed at the open doors.

"What's the matter?" Beth said, turning to look.

"No elevator," Hapax said.

She looked at the empty shaft and slammed her palm into her forehead.

"Damn! Damn! Damn!" Beth said.

"Sh!" Hapax whispered.

"What?" She said.

"I heard something," he said. He darted out of the elevator alcove, took a quick peek down the hall, then raced back, frantic.

"Security. Headed this way," he said.

"Oh great, " Beth said, looking this way and that. Quickly, she slammed the metal plate back on the wires, "That's it. We go home."

"Oh, the hell with it," Hapax said, then he started heading towards the shaft.

"Are you crazy?" she said.

"Do we really have to go through that issue again? Look, we're less than twenty feet away. There's a ledge we can stand on. Maybe we can climb up," Hapax said.

Incredulous, she watched him slip into the shaft and shimmy along the ledge.

"See?" Hapax said, "There's a junction box in here. Maybe you can use it to bring the elevator up to the floor below us. We'll crawl into the car from the exit hatch, then just ride it up. Now get in here."

The footsteps of the security patrol just behind her, Beth inhaled, stepped onto the ledge of the shaft and cautiously inched her way towards Hapax. Quickly, she opened the large metallic box on the far wall, revealing a whole new series of colored wires. This time, however, there were a few buttons as well.

"Okay. I'll call up the elevator first," Beth said, pressing the bright green button. Suddenly, the doors swished closed, leaving them both in utter darkness.

"Oh my," Hapax said.

*

Not one of them stopped smiling when they saw the gun in Keech's hand. In a way, it seemed so natural. Molloy even let out one of his famous, room-shaking bellows. But when Keech fired twice, hitting the red-haired giant first in the throat, then in the chest, all at once, the smiling stopped.

Mannon, still sprawled on the couch, covered his chest with his arms, thinking they would stop the bullets from tearing into his heart. They did not.

Bensen rose and raced towards the elevator. Before he could reach the call button, Keech shot him three times in the back.

Only Bud Bean remained. He thought about running, but knew there was no place to go. Instead, he calmly walked up to Keech, and asked, "Why? No one else could hurt us except you."

"Ah, Bud," Keech answered softly, "You were always my favorite, but, you know, when they finished building the pyramids, in order to ensure that all the secrets were kept safe, the slaves had to be put to death."

"You just killed three men. Why take the chance of getting caught?"

Keech shook his head, "There is no chance of getting caught, Bud. You, of all people, should've guessed at least that much. This afternoon, a gentlemen, carrying this very gun, will turn himself in. You see, God told him we should die."

Bean nodded.

Keech said, "I'm disappointed you don't recognize the genius of this maneuver. You see, old friend, there was a backlash coming from the other institutionalized religions, from the governments. The signs were all over. It might have crushed us – dancing moon and all. Now I've pre-empted that. I've made the Church of the Ultimate Signifier, grand and large as it is, the victim of oppression. Once I've killed you and Calico, then wounded myself, I will have become the lucky survivor of a beleaguered religion. We will surge like blood in the polls."

"Calico, too?" Bean asked.

"Oh, that was an eventuality," Keech answered, "Didn't you _read When Prophecy Fails_? We'll peak soon, and still be only the fiftieth largest religion in the world. With her death, we'll be headed for the top ten."

"But, Keech, we've won. What more could you possibly want?" Bean said.

"Haven't you read the book? I thought for sure you knew. Whatever we've won, we've won in this world. I've got my eyes on the next."

Bean scrunched up his face, perplexed, "What are you talking about?"

Keech looked at him aghast, then, with great sympathy tucked him under the chin with the barrel of the gun and said, "You do disappoint. I want to become an Aeon."

With a little laugh, Bud Bean resigned himself to death, "Well then, my lord and master, I guess there's nothing else to say."

"I appreciate your cooperation, as always," Keech said, smiling.

Bean shrugged, "Oh, I've already done everything I wanted to, thanks to you. What will it be, sir? In the back or in the chest?"

Keech waved the gun, "Running away. I think that would be best. Otherwise they might suspect you knew the killer."

"And it's so very clear that I don't," Bean said. He looked around the suite, at the bodies, at the walls, "Elevator door or window?"

Keech nodded, impressed, "Window. Shows more of a sense of panic."

"Window it is," Bensen said, turning, then he added, "A shame about Michael."

"Don't worry about Michael. He'll live forever, now, with me," Keech said.

"Hm. I hadn't thought about that," Bensen said, preparing to run, "Great Keech, will you think of us from time to time?"

"I'm afraid not."

Bean shrugged, then made a few exaggerated leaps towards the window. The first shot hit just below the rib cage. A second severed his spinal cord. A third missed completely and shattered the window he was racing for.

Down below, when the tiny pieces of glass rained for a moment on the pavement, those in the crowd close enough to see them, thought they were manna from heaven. Some fell to their knees and thanked Calico for the gift.

Bean's torso twitched a few times, then stopped. Keech was about to prod him with his foot when the sound of the elevator door opening made him whirl.

Beth and Hapax stood at the edge of the suite, looking in, staring speechless at the bodies.

"Who are _you_?" Keech hissed.

Hapax looked up first.

"My name is Hapax Trigenomen," Hapax said, "I wrote the book."
19. Guns & Nutters

Seeing the gun in his hand, Beth shot at Keech. He was the first human being she'd ever fired a gun at. She never dreamed in a million years that he wouldn't fall down. The bullet caught him in the right shoulder, jerking his chest back and his arm forward. His gun flew across the room, landing near Molloy's body on the couch. Keech twirled a bit from the force, but quickly recovered his balance and faced the two intruders with a wide, happy grin.

"You know, my son would say that your presence here at this particular moment was an act of fate. A woman – FBI, perhaps? – whom I can now blame for the murders and, of course, the final piece of the puzzle, Mr. Trigenomen!" Keech said, shaking his head, almost laughing.

Beth tried to sound authoritative, but her voice shook as much as her hands.

"Don't move, Mr. Keech," she said, wondering why on earth she was being so deferential. She turned to her ex-boyfriend and shrilly barked, "Hapax, call the police!"

Hapax didn't move, instead he looked at Keech and said, "If it's not fate, what is it?"

"My will," Keech said, shrugging as if it should be obvious.

"Hapax, stop it!" Beth said, "It's over. We saw him kill his entire Board of Directors. Call the police!"

"Where's Calico?" Hapax asked. He knew that once the police arrived he might not be able to see her. He was too close now to give up.

Keech, taking a step forward, nodded towards a door at the opposite end of the suite, "In there. Not that she'll do you much good. She hasn't had much to say since I fucked her. I will still have to kill her, just the same. A shame, really, she was an excellent lay."

Though rattled by his tone, Beth was growing annoyed at being ignored. She was, after all, the one with the gun.

"You're not killing anyone," she said, finally managing to hold her hand steady, "Stand right there. Hapax, the phone!"

Keech took another step forward. His eyes darted back and forth between them, gauging the distance. At one point, his eyes met Hapax' and paused. Keech smiled widely, showing his teeth. A glimpse of something in his eyes, or rather a glimpse of something _missing_ in them, brought Hapax to his senses.

"Yeah, you're right," Hapax said, "I'll call the police."

As Hapax scanned the room for a phone, Keech's eyes settled on Beth. He was still smiling, broader, if possible, as he watched her shaking hands.

"I'm afraid I didn't catch your name, my dear," Keech said, stepping closer still.

Beth was about to answer when, cat-like, Keech closed the distance between them. He slammed his good arm into the gun, sending it to the floor. Before Beth could react, his right fist hit her jaw, sending her sprawling to the ground, unconscious.

Mid-way in his journey to the phone, Hapax turned towards the sound of the scuffle and discovered that he and Keech were now the only ones left standing.

Keech seemed perfectly calm, almost gracious, as he bowed towards Hapax.

"Mr. Trigenomen, I really must thank you. Your book is a true diamond. A cultural pinnacle. Quite a feat. Must have taken you ages to complete," Keech said, adjusting his suit.

"About a decade," Hapax said numbly.

"That's all? It was 2500 years before the Bible was complete, if you count both testaments," Keech said.

"Yeah, well, I had a deadline," Hapax said, "Unlike most, though, you seem to have understood it pretty well."

"Well enough," Keech said, looking around, "to get this far. But there is one thing I don't understand, one question I believe only you can answer for me."

"Oh? What's that?"

Keech stepped close to Hapax. Keech was taller, and Hapax naturally slouched, so he had to look down to stare into his eyes.

"How do you become an Aeon?"

Hapax, terrified, turned nervously away in a manner that made him look as though he was lying.

"Become an Aeon? That's ridiculous. No one becomes an Aeon any more than a brick can become a house."

"Don't play with me. I'm not one of the filthy masses. Calico's becoming an Aeon. She lives in the minds of her followers," Keech said.

"She's _generating_ an Aeon, maybe, but she isn't _becoming_ one," Hapax tried to explain, "What did you think, she really would be immortal? The whole point of my theory is that immortality, perfection, all that is an illusion, a mistake..."

A flash of anger lit Keech's face, derailing Hapax' train of thought.

"From the looks of you," Keech said, " _all_ you did for ten years was work on that book. Tsk-tsk. You shouldn't have neglected your body so. How old do you think I am?"

"Uh, I've never been very good at that sort of thing. 40?" Hapax ventured.

"Thank-you. Fifty-five." Keech said, "And you are?"

"Pardon?"

"How old are you?"

"Thirty-one."

"Thirty-one. My, my. There you have it. I'm twenty-four years older than you, and I've taken a bullet in my shoulder. Under normal circumstances you should be able to mop the floor with me. Instead, seeing my physique, sensing my calm, you're trembling at the thought that I might attack you," Keech said.

Hapax tried his best to look this way and that, but in the end, all he could see was Keech's face and those dead, angry eyes.

"We've made some different choices," Hapax said.

Keech punched Hapax in the stomach with his left hand. As the pain radiated, Hapax doubled over and sank to his knees. Keech grabbed him by the hair and pulled his head back so he could once again look him in the eyes.

"And who do you think made the _right_ choice?" Keech said, snarling.

Before Hapax could respond, Keech punched him in the face. The force of the blow sent Hapax backwards, into an end table.

As Hapax slid from the table to the floor, a cold wind hit him. Turning, he saw that the glass in the huge picture window was missing.

A brass lamp, it's shade torn, fell from the end table and into his shoulder. It almost rolled out the window, but the torn shade caught and held it, inches from Hapax' hand.

Keech kneeled down and whispered into his ear, "Now tell me, how do I become an Aeon?"

Hapax gurgled in response. His head was on fire. Two teeth were rolling around freely in his mouth.

"I'm not sure," Hapax said. He grabbed the brass lamp, and as hard as he could, swung it at Keech's face. The pathetic blow caught the Master of the Church on the edge of the chin, but left not so much as a mark.

"What do you think you're going to do with that?" Keech laughed.

Hapax scrambled to his knees. Knowing a bit about physics, he moved his grip on the lamp to the wire edge.

"I, uh, hope to break your skull with it," Hapax said. Pulling as far back as he could, he swung the lamp in a wide arc towards Keech. This time, at the apogee of its arc, it caught Keech in the center of his right cheek. His face jerked to the left, and he dropped to the floor.

Panting, Hapax struggled to his feet, using the lamp to prop himself up. He was hurt, badly, but functioning. Keech was still down, mostly from shock. Hapax staggered over to him, debating whether he should grab one of the guns on the floor or smack him again with the lamp. When he heard a strange half-growl come out of Keech's mouth, he dropped the lamp and scrambled for the closest gun.

Something approximating a howl rose from the throat of Albert Keech. In a single, animal movement, he snapped to his feet and turned towards Hapax. Hapax, grabbing the gun, fired and missed. It was the last chance he had to shoot. In seconds Keech grabbed Hapax by the shirt and hurled him bodily across the room, into the wall next to the open window. As the gun slipped from his useless hand, Hapax was convinced that at the very least, his right arm was broken.

Before he could open his eyes, Keech was above him, lifting him, holding him sideways above his head, carrying him towards the window. He didn't know if it was an after-effect of all the medication he'd been subjected to in the hospital, or if Keech's eyes really were glowing red.

Down below some of the followers made out a figure in the window. A cheer went up.

"Now, piglet," Keech said, "The source of the Aeons – it's not some sort of mystic coalition of the spirit of the culture, it's men, individual men – like me. One in a million, maybe one in a billion, who dare to step out from the comfort of the familiar and break the mold. When one man speaks a new word, the rest fall in line like chattel. They whisper it in fear and awe, over and over again, making the one who spoke it _immortal_. I am one of those men, piglet, and I will speak that new word."

Hapax stared down at a twenty story drop. The cheering crowd seemed to whisper in his ear.

"Listen, you're really wrong about this," Hapax said, wheezing, "You're thinking the old way. You're caught in the Aeon that says "I" and thinks that speaking its own name makes it eternal. What you call your "self" is only a reflection of what you really are. What you really are is made up of pieces that have lived long before you and will live long after you. Unless and until you let go of the part of you that says "I", you are and always will be nothing more than a point of intersection to forces you can't even guess at..."

"Wrong answer," Keech said. He shifted back and prepared to hurl Hapax to his death.

"Wait!" Hapax screamed, "Okay! Hey! You're right! There's a way! There's a way!"

Smiling, Keech lowered Hapax to the floor and patted him on the cheek.

"Where there's a will, there's always a way," Keech said, "What is it?"

Hapax wiped the blood from his mouth, "Well, uh, your image, your voice have to be known by more than one hundred thousand people."

"Got that."

"And, uh, you have to die."

Keech glared at Hapax.

"Hey, not everybody can do it. It requires that you associate yourself purely with your will. And you can't just die, you have to die in such a way that you have the time, while you're dying, to maneuver your consciousness, to make it reach past its senses, to transcend the body and the mind. You'll see a color you've never seen before. There'll be a tunnel. Get to the other side, you're an Aeon."

"And then?"

"Hey, I don't even think you can get there from here. I mean, I can't, you know what I'm saying? You, maybe you can."

Hapax motioned towards the open window.

"You think I'm going to jump out of the window?" Keech said.

"Me? I don't think anything. You think everything. You're the man," Hapax said. He looked out at the crowd, "You've got at least ten thousand people out there now, all feeling a lot of love for Calico, for the Church, for you. Imagine the power that would be unleashed as they watched you, not fall, not die, but fly into a new world," Hapax said. He gave Keech a little glance and saw that he was looking down at the crowd.

Keech laughed. He turned to Hapax and laughed some more. Hapax smiled back, then, still smiling, he nodded towards the window.

"Yes," Keech said.

"Yes," Hapax repeated, nodding.

"But..."

"But?"

Keech grabbed Hapax and pulled him towards the edge, "You're going to come with me."

"Hey!" Hapax said, trying to pull away, I already told you, this isn't my gig!"

"As we fall you will talk me through it. You will guide me to the next world. In exchange, when I am immortal, I will think of you from time to time," Keech said.

"No!" Hapax screamed. He felt his body lift slightly up. He felt Keech crouch about to leap. Down below the cheering grew louder. In a moment, there would only be falling, and then it would be over.

Suddenly, Hapax heard a dull, rhythmic sound. Keech's hands relaxed their grip. Hapax fell an inch to the ground, free. The expression on Keech's face changed. The surviving head of the Church of the Ultimate Signifier seemed surprised. Curious at the strange sensation in his torso, Keech looked down towards his chest and saw blood soak through his shirt and start to drench the sides of his jacket.

Hapax straightened himself and looked Keech in the eye.

"By the way," Hapax said, giving Keech a little push, "I lied."

As Albert Keech tumbled out the window, and felt the rush of air against him, he forced his mind to calm and reach inside itself. Desperate, he guided his soul through the inky blackness of consciousness, trying to find a way out. At the edge of his inner sight, he saw what he thought was the glimmer of a color he'd never seen before, but when the shadows came up on all sides, enveloping him with darkness, he realized he was wrong. As he tumbled, or the shadows rose, Keech caught a glimpse of a vast eternal pageant, a legion of more than men and more than women, to whom he was no more than a point of intersection. They were looking down at him, some smiling, some sad, but he wasn't sure why. Had he made it? Was he one of them now?

All at once, he was back in his body, watching the crowd and the concrete rise up to meet him at a dizzying speed. Feeling wet and cold and as lonely as Creation, he whispered "Michael." And then the terrible burden of Keech's head, and all the myriad worlds it contained, shattered as it hit the pavement, at one, at last, with God.

Above, Hapax turned and saw Beth, standing, shaking, tears in her eyes, the smoke from her gun still rising.
20. Anxiety of Authorship

When Beth helped Hapax back towards the center of the suite, he did not sit down and rest as she had expected him to. Instead, he started to hobble towards Calico's room.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"Where do you think? Calico. Have to tell her I wrote the book," Hapax said.

Beth was aghast. He hobbled halfway across the room before she came up with something to say.

"What if she doesn't believe you?" she asked.

"I can recite that book line for line," he said, "She will."

"And when everyone knows she's not the source of the Great Word, that'll bring the Church down?" Beth asked hopefully.

This time, Hapax paused and turned back towards Beth, his brow furrowed in a familiar fashion, "Bring the Church down? Little late for that don't you think? Look outside, listen to the shouts, the chants. The world saw the moon move, remember? I'm going in there because I intend to take my place at Mother Calico's side."

"Hapax," Beth said, "Haven't you learned anything from all this?"

"Like what, that it's better to give than receive? Get real. Yeah, I learned something, I learned that I was right. My book started a religion. Ergo I should, at the very least, be a fucking millionaire. Don't worry, I'm bound to be more benign than Mr. I am that I am, down there," Hapax answered, nodding towards the broken window.

"This isn't about money, anymore, Hapax."

"You're right. It's about a dream I had."

"Look, maybe we are all made up of meta-personalities or Aeons or whatever, and maybe that's a useful tool for understanding certain facets of human existence, but goddamn it, so what? It isn't the beginning or end of all things. When you get up in the morning, you've still got to make coffee! Hapax! It's over. Let it end. Just walk away and forget it. Get a life."

Hapax shook his head, and pushed his body forward. He paused when he reached the door and laid his forehead against it.

"You know," he said, "after we made love, while I was lying there in my post-coital glow, I really thought about what it would be like to let go of this, forget about it, pursue a different kind of life, maybe one with you, with struggles and hardships and loyalty and betrayal and love and hate and children and old age and death and all that bullshit. For a little while there, I thought it would be good. But, I don't know, maybe I'm too damaged to change, or maybe I've led too much of my life to turn back on it now."

"Of course you can, it's up to you," Beth said, "Switch Aeons."

She walked up to him and put her hand on his shoulder. He smiled, picked his head up from the door and looked at her.

"Yeah, and maybe if I'd just joined Adult Children of Alcoholics none of this would have happened. But this is the way the world came to me, attics and books and ideas. Maybe it broke me, or maybe it just made me into something a little harder to recognize."

"You could decide..." Beth began.

"Beth, Beth. This _is_ my decision. There's no conflict between free will and destiny here. I want to go through that door. I love you. I'll see you again, if I can – but I am going to claim what's mine."

Above the chanting crowd, Beth heard sirens. She was surprised they'd taken this long.

"Hapax, there's still something I don't understand. Why would someone continue believing in something when all the evidence contradicts it?"

Hapax smiled again.

"Why do you believe in me when I'm obviously insane? Why believe in your own mundane existence when all the evidence indicates that it's pointless?"

"Because I don't have a choice."

"There you go. Now ask yourself why you don't have a choice and you'll have the answer to your question."

The sirens grew louder.

"Better go in," she said.

As he stood at the door to his dream, she noticed he hadn't quite lost his self-conscious demeanor, but he did seem oddly calm.

He opened the door, stepped inside, then gently closed it behind him.

*

Wipe your feet before you come in here.

"Excuse me?" Hapax said, out loud. Then he realized its lips weren't moving.

You heard me.

Obediently, Hapax wiped his feet. Some blood dripped from his mouth to the carpet. Awkwardly he tried to wipe it away with the sole of his shoe, then he gave up and stepped further in.

It was on the couch, wearing a sheer gown on its bruised body and a mad grin on its face, typing into a laptop computer. A switch clicked in Hapax' head, but he couldn't, for the life of him, tell whether the switch had been clicked "on" or "off".

I'm entering a new version of our book onto the web. It will be a home for all the voices. My angels.

Who was talking? Where was it coming from? Was this the end of a long road, the final moment of a quest his entire being was designed to fulfill, or had he simply gone, as Doctor feared all along, permanently schizophrenic? There was no way to know.

It stopped typing and look at him.

Did you see how I made the moon move?

Out loud, he answered:

"I wanted to, but I couldn't, not really, anyway. Maybe just enough to guess how it might work. The Book – it's mine, you know."

It raised Calico's eyebrow and smiled slightly.

Yes, the book is yours. But you're just a dream I'm having.

"Are you...Calico?" Hapax asked.

Sweet Calico is gone, ripped away by the beast's magnificent tool.

"Oh, I get it," Hapax said, trying to regain his equilibrium, "the ego that called itself Calico has been destroyed, leaving you in charge, some sort of mother goddess Aeon? Well, I did say that people couldn't become Aeons, but I never said anything about the other way around. I guess even the eternities enjoy slumming now and then. So, who are you?"

I have no name. There are no words for me.

"Well," Hapax said, "There is another explanation, you know, that you're not anyone or anything, that Calico, crazy to begin with, after studying and preaching from my book every day and night for many, many months, has gone off the deep end, and in her psychotic fantasy, adopted my book, my truth, as her own."

It did not blink an eye or twitch a muscle on Calico's face.

Yes, that is another explanation, and there are many, many more. There are explanations without end, in fact, but we both know which one you believe.

Hapax stepped forward, and for the first time hesitated when he said, "The book is mine. I dreamt the dream. I made it real."

Take your book.

She handed him a copy of The Great Work. It wasn't like the others. It was perfect and pure and just holding it made him feel whole.

It was just like the dream, just like he remembered it, and it held all the answers to everything.

Yes, but I was the dream, and though you knew, you could not name me. I put myself in your mind. I made myself alive for you. It wasn't for you that you were writing, my dearest, no matter what you believe, it was for Calico. You saw her from your attic, and wanted her, just like Keech, because you saw me in her, but you could not woo her by force as he did, so, my hand on yours, you wrote us this lovely poem.

Hapax stared at the beautiful book in his hands and knew that she was right.

_You were right about so much, but you missed one point. It isn't a new Aeon replacing the old, it's an older one, a goddess, beaten, raped and disenfranchised. I never died, though, I was invisible to His word, hiding, waiting, for a time like now, a day like today. Perhaps someday I will allow your children to write with words again, but not today, Hapax, and certainly not in your lifetime. Trust me, it will be a release, a grand release, especially for you_.

"I am..." Hapax started, not knowing those words would be his last.

She rose gracefully, approached him and gently put a finger to his lips.

Hush. For most, it will be a slow process. The language is difficult to give up, but you, my dear, you have already spoken much too much.

While he still had words with which to think, he realized that the thing-that-was-Calico was right, there was no need to worry.

It was a relief, a blessed relief.
Epilogue

Beth saw Hapax one last time, in the hotel suite. At first, she didn't realize who he was. There was something different, markedly different, about the expression on his face. The always uncomfortable, self-conscious countenance she had, through the course of their relationship, come to _equate_ with Hapax, was totally gone. He was either serene and happy or in some sort of trance. She couldn't decide which. Barely acknowledging Beth's presence, he was soon engulfed by the same cloud of police, doctors, lower church officials and other authorities that swept Calico away so quickly and cleanly, it was as though she'd never been there at all. Beth hoped he'd found what he was looking for.

She heard about him one more time. In the days that followed she became concerned that she might need him as a witness, to verify the story of why she had killed the most powerful man in the world. In a half-hearted effort to find him, she contacted the Jesus Ward only to learn that while he was never officially returned to the hospital, he was now officially released.

His testimony was unnecessary. It was a simple matter for forensics to establish that Keech had killed the rest of the board. The subliminal messages in the a/v file clinched the case against him. Rather than charges, Beth received several glowing commendations. To her chagrin, she soon became known as the agent who saved the Church of the Ultimate Signifier from destruction at the hands of that poor misguided madman, Keech.

One fine morning, after all the debriefings and the interviews and after the buzz finally began to die, for the very first time Beth Mansfield was actually happy to see her office. It seemed neither totally new nor terribly old. Sighing, she tossed her coat towards the rack. It missed and tumbled to the floor. She didn't bother to pick it up.

There was a final report on the Church to be filed, a mere formality, really, but it was high time she put the whole thing behind her. Cheerful, she pulled out her chair, plunked herself down, clicked the requisite buttons and pulled the microphone close to her face. After a cup of coffee and a few moments to collect her thoughts, Beth began dictating to the computer

At first, she was a little surprised that as her words appeared on the screen, they were electronically transformed into animated, iconic images. With a laugh and a sigh, she realized the new program, " _1,000 Words_ " had been installed. Figuring that the computer probably knew best what it was doing, she continued with her dictation, pleased by how many of the icons she could readily understand. When she finished with all the details she cared to include, she could not resist somehow trying to sum up.

"A personal note," she said to the machine, "With the help of a friend, I think I've finally managed to understand the desperate need of believers to defend themselves against the facts. You see, as far as I can tell, none of us know where we came from or where we're going, but we all need, more than anything, to know where we are. So we invent stories, explanations, sciences, philosophies, anything to make us feel safe. In the end, though, they're all flawed ideas glued together by dreams and wishful thinking, just fragile little boats in a great big sea. When the one we're riding in springs a leak, or encounters a disconfirmation, if you like, what else can we do but frantically try to plug it with whatever is at hand, all in an effort to continue a journey whose destination we don't even know. God is the lightning, God is justice, God is love, life, the rain, the river, the seed, the plant, the husk, the dirt, the sky. God is life, God is death. God is, is, is."

As she spoke, each thought was re-born on the screen as a bright, lovely, pictogram. She was a little disappointed at how few there were, and wondered briefly if the nuances would survive the translation. Still, the report was finished, the ritual moment of closure had been accomplished. She uploaded the results for her superiors to review and let go.

Briefly, she wondered where that computer geek was these days. The one who told her about _When Prophecy Fails_ in the first place. What was his name? Stan? Glen? If he asked her out again, she would probably say, "yes."

There was some time before lunch, but she didn't feel like doing anything else just yet, so she punched up today's News on her screen. The front page had no words at all anymore, only pictograms. One, much bigger than the others, was in the center of the page. It showed Calico, smiling and nodding, surrounded by an oscillating golden ring that seemed to bathe everything in a dull yellow light. It wasn't quite a photo, and of course not the same as actually seeing the Mother of All herself, but it was close enough.

A host of smaller pictures circled her, one that looked like a serpent, diving and twisting, another that might be a man, then a flame, a ship, an ear, a mouth. All of them moved in what seemed a finely tuned dance. No sequential order was necessary to convey their meaning. It was all so perfectly plain.
Acknowledgements

I'd be incredibly remiss if I didn't name and thank the teacher of a certain _Bible As Literature_ class, taught at S.U.N.Y. Purchase, Prof. Lee Schlesinger, whose insightful lectures provided more than a few seeds for the ideas encountered herein.

I'd also like to thank the many dear friends who, in acting as readers and proof-readers, helped me get this manuscript into shape: my lovely, patient, incredible wife Sarah, my partner and pal Steve Holtz, David E. Lane, Shelby Gragg, Sheila Kinney, Chris Marzec, Lesley Logan, Lee Schlesinger and Richard Stack.

I always knew someone would publish Making God, I just never dreamed it would be me...

Stefan Petrucha

Yorktown, New York, 1997

timetripper@petrucha.com

www.petrucha.com

Follow me on Twitter: @SPetrucha
