Gridlock and Other Stories Part 13

"'Absolutely no proof that the Shroud is that of Jesus Christ.' Wasn't that what you told me at our first meeting, Doctor Frakes?"

"I fear I am being quoted out of context, Primate. What I said was that absolute proof is not possible. We know that the Shroud is a burial cloth, but it was my opinion last summer that the ident.i.ty of the man in the image could never be proven with utter certainty."

"Does your curious phrasing of that answer mean that you have changed your mind and absolute proof is now possible?" Calle asked, excitement creeping into his voice.

"Well, I..."

The Primate held up his hand. "Just a moment, Doctor. Perhaps we should get one thing clear. Do you know why I granted your request last year and allowed you to scan the Shroud with your miraculous machine?"

"Frankly, Excellency, I truly don't. I was both surprised and pleased when I received your letter."

The First Primate nodded. "I understand you were turned down by quite a number of others.""Yes, Excellency. You must understand that I am not a religious man. My father was a man of the cloth and hoped I would follow his example. I am afraid that it was not to be. Instead, I have spent my professional career working on the genetic structure of human blood and how it has or has not changed with the centuries.

"The basic problem in my field, of course, is getting samples of ancient human blood to perform tests on. Unfortunately, the only part of our bodies that remains after death are the bones. Theoretically, we could run a chromosome map on them, but in practice their calcified structure is unsuitable for the basic tests that are required."

"Which brought you to us," the Primate said.

"Yes. The two places where I could obtain material for my experiments were the mummies of Egyptian pharaohs and, of course, the blood stains on the Shroud. The tests are nondestructive, so I hoped there would be no objections to the procedure."

"And the Egyptians turned you down while I accepted," the First Primate said.

"Yes, Excellency."

"But why are you so surprised?"

"I told you, Excellency. I am not a believer."

"In this case, Doctor, that factor worked in your favor."

"I don't understand."

"Do you know what the Achilles Heel of Christianity was before the Shroud was authenticated, Doctor?"

Frakes shook his head.

"The lack of validation by nonbelievers, of course. Are you aware that there are no eyewitness accounts of Christ except for those in the Bible?" Frakes opened his mouth to object, but the First Primate stopped him with an impatient gesture. "No, it's true. Oh, no one doubts that He existed.

There are historical references to His existence from the First Century, commentaries written by men who lived shortly after His time and who do not contest the fact of His existence. A few scholars have suggested that He did not exist, but mostly, they have been laughed into silence.

"But think, Doctor. How much better it would have been if we had even a single sc.r.a.p of evidence that was not basically Christian in origin. Would it not be nice to have a pagan's account of the Sermon on the Mount? Or perhaps a Roman soldier's letter home telling of the crucifixion of another Hebrew troublemaker? Some corroborating evidence, as it were, from a source other than our own holiest of books?"

"I guess I never looked at it that way, Excellency."

"So for two thousand years the world's Christians took their religion on faith alone. Now faith is a wonderful thing, but is it not so much better to have proof? That, at least, is the cornerstone on which our Order was built. It is, I am afraid, the main source of friction between ourselves and the old established religions. Many of them still believe faith is enough.

"Whatever your side in that argument, however, it still remains that a number of sophisticated testson the Shroud -- the extensive a.n.a.lyses of the 1980s and 1990s -- could not prove it a fraud. To those of us in the Order, they went much farther than the negative finding that shows up in the final reports. We have pondered the evidence and find it sufficient to prove our case beyond any reasonable doubt. It is on those results that our beloved Bartolo built this Order."

John Frakes licked dry lips and wondered why it was suddenly so cold in the sitting room. He chose his next words carefully, wis.h.i.+ng that the buzzing in his ears would subside long enough for him to concentrate on the business at hand.

"I do not wish to disagree with someone as learned as yourself, Excellency, but all those original tests proved was that the Shroud is truly the burial cloth of a man who was crucified. There was no proof whatever that he was the Son of G.o.d."

The First Primate smiled. "Which brings us to why you are here Doctor. We are an Order that has no fear of science. As I have explained, our founding was the direct result of those earlier test results.

However, those discoveries were somewhat limited in scope, as you have pointed out. The earliest researchers into the Shroud used nothing but their naked eyes. Later cameras, microscopes, and Carbon-14 dating techniques were used in conjunction with computer a.n.a.lysis. These studies yielded many valuable results, but were still limited by the fact that -- except for a few small samples taken during 1973 -- all tests have had to be nondestructive in nature. Those early Keepers of the Shroud were quite correct in refusing to allow additional pieces of the sacred cloth to be removed. If every scientist who wanted samples from the Shroud had been accommodated there would be little more than a handkerchief sized piece left today."

"So you granted my request to examine the Shroud because my investigations are completely harmless?" Frakes asked.

"Of course," the Primate said. "Even so, I had a hard night of it before making the decision to grant your request. If you had been one of us, if you truly believed that the Shroud was Our Savior's burial garment, I would probably have turned you down."

"I still don't understand, Excellency."

"It is quite simple, Doctor Frakes. You will be my pagan at the Sermon on the Mount, my Roman soldier writing his family of the Crucifixion. You have no connection with this Order and a worldwide reputation for honesty and scholars.h.i.+p. You will go forth and publish your findings, and we will use those findings for the further Glory of G.o.d. Now, sir, pardon my excitement but I have waited most of my adult life for this moment. What can you tell us of our Holy Relic?"

"Have you the proof positive that we seek?" Calle asked, his eyes s.h.i.+ning with excitement no less than the Primate's.

Frakes cleared his throat and averted his eyes, keenly aware that the decisive moment was upon him.

"I have proof, but I fear you will be disappointed."

"Come now, Doctor, out with it! What have you discovered?"

"As we discussed, Excellency, I first concentrated my instruments on the body images and not the blood stains. It has been a mystery for centuries just how the image came to be on the cloth of the Shroud. Well, the mystery is mysterious no longer. The body image is the result of a complex, but perfectly understandable chemical reaction. I have a report in my briefcase that you can study at yourleisure."

"Go on."

"Our next objective was to determine the chromosome structure of the individual whose blood is on the Shroud. This is what took the better part of four months. You understand, Excellency, that there is much we do not know concerning chromosome structure. We have another millennium of study in front of us before we understand the underlying principles. However, in our initial, groping way, we have scanned the cloth and developed sufficient data to identify his chromosome pattern with a ninety-five percent probability. We then a.n.a.lyzed the pattern extensively. The man whose shroud that is in your underground vault was almost surely a Semite. With one exception the chromosome pattern correlates well with that of a modern man of Semitic extraction."

"Exception?" the First Primate asked, his manner suddenly intense. "You have found evidence that this was no mortal man?"

"Not exactly, Excellency."

"Out with it man! Was it Our Lord or not?"

"No, Excellency, it couldn't possibly have been. The very idea is grotesque, unthinkable."

"You let me worry about what can be thought or not thought, Doctor. What have you discovered?"

"The chromosome pattern, Excellency. It had a strange structure in some of the peptide chains. It took us quite a while to identify it and even longer to check our conclusions. In fact, the implications are so far reaching for your order, that I had the work completely rerun six separate times. There can be no mistake.

"The man who lay in the Shroud had a genetic defect. He suffered from a condition known as Kurusoku Syndrome."

"We are not medical people, Doctor Frakes," the First Primate said, an edge developing in his voice. "What does that mean in English?"

"Kurusoku Syndrome was first identified around the turn of the last century. It is a genetic disease characterized by a progressive reduction of the afflicted person's mental capacity, an ever-increasing sense of disorientation with respect to reality, and if allowed to go untreated, can lead to delusions of grandeur. If it were proved that the Shroud were the true burial cloth of Jesus Christ ... well, I think you'll agree that the consequences for Christianity would be catastrophic."

It was twenty minutes after the alarm went out that the first ambulance arrived on the scene. For the better part of an hour, the doctors worked on the First Primate before they dared send him to the coronary unit of Our Lady of Fatima Hospital on the outskirts of Turin. He was given only a fifty-fifty chance of surviving the night. As John Frakes descended the Cathedral steps to the waiting cab, he s.h.i.+vered in the cold drizzle. He sat inside the vehicle in a daze. All he could remember was the memory of the old man's eyes just before the heart attack took him. The look of betrayal was one that would stay with him all the rest of his life.

The same look had been frozen on his father's face on that fateful Christmas Eve so many years before. The look now haunted his very dreams. Somehow, he knew that it would haunt his dreams for a long time to come.#

Author's notes forThe Shroud :

You do not see many science fiction stories with religious themes, and even fewer with pro-religious themes. The reason for this is not that SF people are anti-religious. Rather, it has to do with the basic nature of fiction. Generally, a pro-religious story will only appeal to the adherents of that religion. Everyone else's eyes will glaze over.

The basis of fiction is conflict and one of the techniques of the art is to place the characters and readers on the horns of a dilemma for which there is no solution. InThe Shroud , I present the reader with a series of facts that add up to the conclusion thatthe Shroud of Turin cannot possibly be the burial cloth of Jesus Christ. However, throughout the story the reader is presented with another series of facts that convinces he or she that the shroud is very genuine! The reader's belief in the shroud is especially strong because most of the convincing has been subliminal. Then, when the scientist announces his discovery at the end of the story, the reader is presented with a conundrum for which there is no satisfactory solution. The result -- a strong piece of fiction.

The Shroudwas an idea that came to me in a single moment. I was in the middle of a religious argument with other members of my carpool at the time. We were driving down the Superst.i.tion Freeway in Tempe one hot summer afternoon with the windows rolled down because my car's air conditioning did not work. Whether the Arizona summer reminded me of h.e.l.l, I do not know. The idea just popped into my head fully formed.

My idea was to write the story, submit it to Stan Schmidt at a.n.a.log, get it rejected, and then send it to Omni because they paid really big bucks in those days. I did not want to bypa.s.s Stan Schmidt because he was buying most of my fiction at the time, but I knew that it was not an a.n.a.log kind of story. Guess what? He bought it and it appeared in the 2 March 1981 issue of the magazine. What did the poet say about "the best laid plans of mice and men...?"

Following its publication, I expected (actually, I hoped for) a storm of controversy in the magazine's letters column. Again, my plans went awry. Not a single person complained.

The Shroud won an honorable mention in the Locus Reader Poll for 1981. Not bad for a story that I thought would not be salable due to its subject matter.

For those who are disturbed by this story, The Shroud of Turin's age was confirmed by radiocarbon dating in 1990. Three different laboratories determined that the cotton that went into the weaving of the cloth was grown between the years 1260 and 1390 AD. In other words, the shroud is a medieval fake! As the story suggests, perhaps that is just as well.

Some may have noticed that John Frakes' name is strikingly similar to that of Jonathan Frakes, the actor who plays Commander Ryker onStar Trek, The Next Generation . This is a coincidence. I wroteThe Shroud long before I had heard of the actor.

WHO WILL GUARD THE GUARDIANS?.

With Catherine McCollum

Immortality must be purchased for a price.

Perhaps that price is too high.

The dream came again, once more full of greens and reds, and children's faces. There were hundreds of them! Some wore ugly, teasing, taunting, hating faces. Others were beautiful. Their peaches-and-cream complexions were split by broad smiles as the faces' tiny owners laughed and shouted with joy. Others were indistinct faces, while still others stared at her with sad, longing eyes...

Fria opened her eyes with a start, frightened to discover that she had not been sleeping after all. She was lying in a large meadow of yellow wild flowers that had somehow escaped her goats and sheep.

She had been staring up at the cloud-strewn sky when she had drifted off to ... where? She s.h.i.+vered at the thought. The doctors of so long ago had warned her about hallucinating. Hallucinations, they had told her, would be the first sign of the impending end. When she began to see things that were not there, that would be hard evidence that all human beings are mortal, even Fria and those like her.

Nothing, it seemed, is forever.

She sat up and then quickly got to her feet. For the first time in many minutes, she could again hear the faint hum of wild bees and the quiet whisper of the wind blowing across the hillside. Exasperated, she bent down to brush the yellow pollen from her long woolen skirt, before turning and starting up the trail that led toward the top of her mountain. As she left the meadow, a dark shape burst from the underbrush to trot beside her.

Her dog was a nameless mongrel of uncertain parentage, one of the periodic houseguests who drifted into her life, stayed awhile, and then drifted out again. She sighed, and spoke for the first time in several hours. The dog p.r.i.c.ked up its ears at the sound.

"Hopefully it is too late for her to come tonight," Fria mused. "Help me gather in my sheep and I'll share my supper with you!"

By the time she had penned the sheep, milked her two goats, and shooed the chickens back into the old shed, there were three new dogs sitting in front of her stoop. They were thin and scraggly. One had half its ear gone and was marked by the diagonal line of a long healed scar across its muzzle. The scar gave the animal a mean look that the wagging of its tail belied.

Ever since the Destruction, dogs had not been kept much as pets. That unhappy time had apparently severed the age-old bond forever. Any stray canine that wandered into the village at the foot of her mountain was more likely than not to end up in the community stew pot. Save for the few relics like herself, no one now alive remembered the time when dogs had been "man's best friend."

Fria noted with a pang that the collie mix among the strays was a pregnant b.i.t.c.h. She s.h.i.+vered beneath her woolen s.h.i.+rt, hoping that they would be gone before the b.i.t.c.h's time came.Inside the stone house, it was cold. It wasalways cold. She did not mind, for the cold was her preservative. She could barely remember when being warm had been one of the natural conditions of life. The house was also dark as the light of day faded outside. She cured that problem by lighting an oil lamp. As usual, what few furnis.h.i.+ngs she had were well hidden by the clutter - tattered and yellowing books, scattered sheets of foolscap with scrawls of lumpy, homemade ink on them, her lounging cats. At the thought of her cats, her eyes sought out Pounce's customary position.

The cat's tail could be seen protruding from beneath an impromptu tent of old magazines. Pounce was the one constant in Fria's life, and she loved the animal dearly despite the cat's lazy, ungrateful att.i.tude toward life. Pounce was also the last link she had to the long departed world of her youth.

"Here, Pounce!"

The tabby's head lifted slowly from the pile of magazines, as though to reproach Fria for disturbing her sleep. Pounce yawned, seemed to debate with herself on whether rising to her feet was worth the effort, and then arched her back as only a cat can. She walked to the edge of Fria's ancient desk and waited. Fria reached out to scratch behind the cat's ears. After a short pause, she was rewarded by the deep rumble of Pounce's purring.

"You're slowing down, cat. Can you finally be getting old after only 400 years?"

Fria chuckled at her feeble joke and wondered what the villagers would say if they had overheard it. At the thought of the village and its inhabitants, the smile faded from her lips.

Fria did not tolerate people and allowed herself very little contact with others. She deemed the villagers to be irritating fools, and had little reason to believe the rest of humanity was any better.

Occasionally they would send pilgrims up the long trail to the top of the mountain. They would bring offerings that she would grudgingly bless. Once, long ago, she had tried to help them. However, the effort had been fruitless.

Like the houses of the village, her home was without electricity. This had not bothered her for a long time. One large room held a fireplace where she cooked and spent most of her time. A small bedroom in the rear was separated from the main room by a ragged woolen blanket hung from the ceiling. A sleeping loft completed her domicile.

Fria ate her meal sparingly and gave most of it to the dogs that waited patiently outside. After the collie mix had gulped down a bowl of curdled goat's milk, Fria found herself scratching the base of the b.i.t.c.h's ears. She could not figure out why she cared. Maybe it was because she remembered what dogs had been like before...

She brought her thoughts back to the present with a start. She'd let her grasp on reality slip again.

She knelt over the b.i.t.c.h, running her hand over its distended belly. A tiny lump moved beneath her fingers. She pulled her hand away as though it had rested on a hot stove. The sudden movement caused the collie to yelp and run for its companions.

"Sorry," Fria said, sighing. She turned to go inside and then glanced back at the dogs, tears welling in her eyes. "At least you have each other."

Fria's evenings were long and restless and sleep was hard to find. Sometimes at night, she would sit by the fire and stir the coals, staring at the burning brightness until her eyes hurt. Fria's need for sleep had declined over the years and what little rest she did get was increasingly filled with nightmares. Shewould often toss and struggle on her small straw bed until she was covered in cold, clammy perspiration.

Tonight she lay half-asleep on her bed. The long dead faces were just beginning to form as the cold fear began to build inside. A dull thudding seemed to burst inside her head. She forced herself awake, then bolted into a sitting position. The sudden movement made her dizzy. Fria sat at the edge of the bed, her hands pressed tightly to her head. The pounding noise refused to end. The barking of the dogs was undercut by a m.u.f.fled voice that floated to her above the din.

Fria found the candle by her bed with trembling hands. She stumbled to the fireplace where a red glow of dying embers still lingered. She doubled over, touched the candle tip to the embers, and was rewarded by a pale, yellow flame. The pounding at the door had become more insistent. Her heart thumped almost as loudly as the noise. She could feel her pulse in her throat as she pulled the door open. In the faint light, she saw a frail little creature pus.h.i.+ng awkwardly at the surrounding dogs.

"Get these animals away from me!" The wraith screamed as it kicked at the dogs.

Fria hesitated. Before she could respond, the figure pushed past her and deposited itself in front of the fireplace. Fria fought the wind and forced the door closed before turning. The figure removed its wet cloak, revealing a young girl with wet blond curls, a pale pinched face, and fair coloring. The girl dropped her cloak in a heap at her feet, turned, and returned Fria's stare. The girl took a step closer, disbelief on her face, as she lifted her hand to touch Fria's face.

"You're not old at all," she said before emitting a short, sharp bark of a laugh. "Why you aren't even as old as my mother!"

Fria pulled away and brushed quickly past the girl. She placed the candle on the table and threw a log on the fire. In seconds, it had burst into yellow flame. She turned to the girl and pointed toward the fire.

"Stand in front of the hearth and remove your clothes."