The Religion War (17 page)

And then it stopped.

Mackey stared at the screen for a few minutes, hoping it would restart. When it didn't, he checked the run logs. Some of his digital creatures had evolved to have human characteristics. And they had just annihilated all life in his program, including their own.

Mackey slunk back against the wall of his safe room. The explosions were getting nearer.The television reported that drones were spraying an unidentified chemical over the city that was so highly aerosol it resisted floating to the ground. Itjust hung in the air and spread sideways. Anyone who was exposed died within an hour. Early reports were that the chemical had one quality that the Homeland Security department hadn't anticipated.

It melted plastic.

A TV reporter described how plastic would turn brown before melting from the airborne chemical. Mackey looked at the perimeter of his safe room. One corner, covering a ceiling vent, was already brown.

There wouldn't be time for another try. He was done. Mackey felt a calm sense of detachment about his impending death. He hoped it would be quick. He felt oddly curious about what it would feel like the moment before expiration. But mostly he needed to talk to someone. He needed to make some calls. He would call his parents and his brothers, to lie and say he was fine. He wanted to hear their voices one more time. Mackey picked up his phone and dialed his parents.A message blinked "Unauthorized Call." Checking the serial code on the back of the phone, Mackey knew he had the right device, and it was authorized for calls to his family. There was only one explanation. The military must have shut down all personal calling, to limit the spread of panic and control the flow of information about the war. Mackey's television set went black.

The plastic on his ceiling was flaking off, raining large bits of brown debris on the floor. Mackey knew the end was near.

"Ijust want to make a phone call," he muttered to himself.

Cruz's soldiers rarely saw who they were killing. It was war at a distance. Battle platforms swept enemy missiles out of the sky before they could reach Christian Alliance battleships. Smart missiles destroyed all of al-Zee's antiaircraft capabilities in the first hours of the war, circling patiently until radar locked on to them, then diving toward the sources, obliterating them. Missiles and fighter jets did the rest, delivering massive destruction to targets that had no specific description. Pilots no longer needed to know that their targets were ammo dumps or bridges.The central battle computer assigned targets and programmed the GPS systems of the pilots on the fly, making adjustments in real time based on drone surveillance of the battlefield. Pilots didn't need to know what they were bombing or why, and Cruz counted on that fact to pursue his goal of annihilation.

A few hours earlier, Cruz and Waters had sat in front of a computer that presented all conceivable battle options. Every target was listed, its military value scored. Cruz could select targets and click the Reforecast button to see how any particular plan would turn out, within a reasonable degree of certainty. Once a plan was selected, the specific orders would be sent automatically to the computers and GPS systems of every member of the military, along with timing details. No one but Waters knew that Cruz had chosen Select All to destroy the entire military and civilian population of the Muslim world. And no one
could
know, until it was too late to change it. Reporters weren't allowed in the battle area. Television and radio signals in al-Zee's territory were jammed electronically before the first missile was fired. Cruz ordered all phone number databases to be shut down, disabling the system worldwide. An independent multinational group out of Switzerland controlled the global phone number database, theoretically outside the jurisdiction of any government, but they weren't prepared to argue with Cruz. They did as they were told.

Extermination had begun. A thick rain of missiles streaked through the sky and landed on hospitals, schools, bridges, homes, mosques, businesses, and military targets. The missile crews and jet pilots didn't know what they were blowing up or why. They assumed that military intelligence had detected secret underground bunkers and weapons sites under civilian areas. Everyone understood that there would be civilian casualties. No one questioned why entire blocks—eventually entire cities—were being annihilated. Everyone did his job as if it were nothing more than delivering packages. For Cruz's side, war was abstract.

Cruz's Black Force, the elite team trained to assassinate al-Zee, easily penetrated Lower Qadum's defenses, with the help of an insider who mistakenly believed that collaboration would spare his family. Dressed in local garb and led by Captain Troy Spencer, Black Force worked its way through the streets of Lower Qadum, toward al-Zee's living quarters. Spencer tried not to think about the uselessness of this assignment. He knew that killing al-Zee would have no impact on the war. In fact, it might be harder to stop the fighting once the only person who could agree to peace was dead.The rumor in Black Force was that this mission was personal, that Cruz wanted al-Zee dead, not just trapped in Lower Qadum for his lifetime. It wasn't their job to ponder the moral or strategic implications of what they did.They were too well trained.

A packet of C4 eliminated an outer wall of al-Zee's compound while another simultaneously took out his electrical system and backup generators. Black Force entered the breach, equipped with silent firearms and night-vision glasses.They neutralized al-Zee's personal bodyguards with clinical efficiency .The frightened-looking man at the center of this protection sat alone, grasping a Koran to his chest and praying aloud. A bullet ended his prayer. Spencer photographed the corpse for verification and took a lock of hair for DNA analysis later.

The Avatar's sense of failure was turning into depression. His body felt heavy and lifeless. Stacey was talking to him, but he couldn't hear her anymore. He was lost in a replay of his life. How could he have ever imagined he was the chosen one? He had skills that other people didn't have; that was clear. He could see patterns and he knew things without knowing how he knew. But it was a far leap from that to say he knew the nature of God and the future of reality. Was it hubris or stupidity or both? he wondered. He started to think that the whole Avatar delusion must be like a virus, passed on from one mistaken fool to the next. He was unlucky, nothing more. A life of loneliness was wasted.

Or worse, if he really was an Avatar, he had failed.The world would soon be destroyedfor all practical purposes. Everything he understood, or thought he understood, about reality was proving wrong. If God existed, and had a plan for reassembling himself, nothing would be able to stop it. In that case the Avatar would
have to
succeed. But he hadn't succeeded, and that meant that his understanding of God was wrong, that his life was an unintentional joke.

A rising murmur in the hallway stirred the Avatar from his spiral of self- loathing. Cruz, Waters, and his aides were approaching, on their way to something important.The nonmilitary people sitting in the hallway stood instinctively as he approached. The Avatar could muster only enough energy to turn his head and watch. Cruz noticed the Avatar and stopped.

"You might as well come with me," said the general. "You'll want to hear this."

"I'll stay here, if that's okay," said the Avatar, too drained to move.

"I'll bring him," said Stacey, pulling the Avatar up by his arm. Cruzjust nodded and continued. The Avatar had no fight left in him. He wasn't aware of his own feet as they moved him toward the assembly area.

Cruz took the podium. His aides, Stacey, and the Avatar stood to one side of the standing-room crowd. Anxious military people and a sprinkling of civilian survivors waited to hear anything they could about the fate of the outside world.

Cruz tested the microphone and began. "The war has started. I have authorized my forces to surround the Muslim Territories and prosecute my battle plan. I alone am responsible for the plan of attack, the target choices, and the outcome. I accept the judgment of history for what I am about to do."

"Windbag," whispered Stacey to the Avatar, getting no reaction.

"This will not be a traditional war, where one side surrenders. It is a war of culture, of belief, neither of which
can
surrender. Our ability to kill each other has exceeded our ability to find common ground. Our only choices are victory or defeat. On your behalf, I choose victory. I have authorized my forces to...eliminate...al-Zee's supporters."

A civilian in the crowd voiced the question that was on all of their minds. "What do you mean by 'eliminate'?"

Cruz paused. He knew only one way to say it, but the word was stuck in his throat. Once released, it could never be taken back. But the time for ambiguity had passed. The public, what was left of it, would find out eventually. Better it came from him. The word left his mouth like a regurgitated demon.

"Extermination."

The crowd became deathly silent, then stirred as one, whispering, mumbling, shocked, confused. They were part of Cruz's history whether they liked it or not. They would be the people who had let it happen. No one wanted to lose a war, but extermination was going too far. To the ordinary person, and to this crowd in particular, the notion was wrong on every level. It violated their core humanity.

"I know what you're thinking," Cruz continued over the din. "There can be no reason good enough to destroy an entire culture, two billion people, most of which have no quarrel with us. But the alternative is defeat. Their culture is infected with a belief that killing infidels is a ticket to paradise. If we win the war militarily but leave the enemy's beliefs intact, we strengthen them. They will come for us, this time with more powerful weapons of mass destruction. They will not fear death. They will not trade risk for comfort. They would chip away at our economy until we couldn't support our military, then they would destroy us. We must kill the idea. The only way to do that is by eliminating the vessels that carry it."

"How can you be so sure that's the only way?" yelled someone from the crowd.

"God has spoken to me," said Cruz. "His will be done."

Waters snapped his head at the sound of automatic rifle fire. A military man in the crowd had opened fire toward the podium. The soldier shouted a string of obscenities that were mostly incomprehensible until"...crazy Hitler bastard! It ends now!"

The podium blocked the chest shot that would have killed Cruz. A second bullet grazed his shoulder and knocked him off his feet, to the relative safety of the floor. The audience grabbed the assailant's arm and subdued him, but they couldn't stop the last few rounds, now unfocused, that bunched into the front of the room, tearing through walls, columns, and fixtures. Cruz was on the ground, his sidearm drawn, with Waters on top of him, a human shield. Waters glanced over his shoulder to see that the immediate danger was gone, the traitor in custody. He hustled Cruz toward the side exit, over the body of the Avatar, limp and bleeding, a gaping wound in his chest.

Stacey accompanied the medics as they rushed the Avatar to the internal H2 hospital.They assumed she was a family member, and she didn't try to correct that impression. Cruz and Waters were already there, as doctors dressed Cruz's surface wound. The Avatar was lifted into an adjacent bed. Doctors checked for his pulse and found one, barely. A doctor flipped on the instant MRI to see a three-dimensional image. The bullet was lodged in his heart. Nurses connected an EKG to his head and turned it on.

"Must have been a ricochet. Otherwise it would have gone straight through," said a dark-haired doctor.

"Still, he's done," said a sandy-haired doctor. "The heart is too damaged. Nothing we can do here. And look, there's no brain activity."

Stacey listened and stared. She was wearing a surgical mask, her eyes as big as moons. "You can't let him die!"

"He's already dead, ma'am, for all practical purposes. I'm sorry. We could keep his body working artificially, but without a heart or brain activity there's not much point."

"What about a heart transplant? People get those every day!"

"Not without donors. And we'll need his bed if we have more injuries. If I have to unplug him to keep someone else alive, I'll do it. This is a military hospital. That's just the way it is. And besides, like I said, he has no brain activity."

Stacey's fists were tight as rocks. She could feel her face flushing with an intense urge to punch the doctor. She would never tolerate a pessimistic response at her restaurant, and she didn't appreciate it now. But she couldn't see her way to a better solution. She wouldn't punch anyone yet, but the next few minutes would be a challenge.

"Too bad about the old guy," said Cruz as the doctor finished dressing his wound. "I kind of liked the little fool. Unfortunately this world has no place for dreamers. Life rewards action, not ideas."

Waters felt a burning sensation behind his eyes. For a man who rarely felt anything, this was novel. It wasn't quite a headache, more like a brain ache. He squinted and tried to shake it off, but it only got worse.

By now, al-Zee assumed, his double would be dead. As a student of history he knew that all impenetrable fortresses had the same weakness—the people who guarded them. Al-Zee had stayed behind in Switzerland after the meeting with Cruz, in a safe house set up for that purpose. He hadn't counted on being completely shut off from communications. But no matter, his cell leaders had their instructions. On day one, the San Francisco metropolitan area would be sprayed with biological agents. If that didn't stop Cruz's attack, Los Angeles was next. Every major city in the Christian Alliance would be destroyed in turn. The cells were in place, autonomous, trained, ready to die. They didn't need communications. All they needed was a calendar.

He would win this war, he told himself, because God wanted him to win. He had never lost before, and that was all the proof he needed that God was on his side against the infidels. Still, he hoped that the war would stop after only a few cities had been destroyed. Surely God did not want dominion over a wasted world. Or maybe that was his plan all along, to purge the nonbelievers and sinners, as he did once before, as with Noah. Al-Zee blushed at the idea that he might be God's latest Noah, the chosen one assigned to restart a cleansed world. But it was hard to deny the facts. It couldn't be a coincidence that he found himself in this position. History would not deny him his place.