understood?”
“Yes, sir.” Some of the haughtiness was melting, from the application of heat.
“Do you think anyone important escaped?” Styx asked. He looked sidelong at a newly placed photograph on the wall, showing the destruction of Monte Konos in full color, with the top of the mountain afire like a volcano. It was a spectacular scene.
“Hard to say,” Branson responded. “Hopefully, it was just some low-level people who took the aircraft in the heat of battle, saving their own skins.”
“That might have happened, and in such an eventuality we’d have little to worry about, wouldn’t you agree? Guards—or other “low-levels” as you say—would probably ditch the aircraft at the first opportunity and be happy to escape with their lives.”
“That would seem likely.”
“Such people would not be likely to reorganize the UWW, would they?”
“No.”
“So, do you think the UWW is dead, a flopping, useless body without a head?”
“One would hope so.”
“But what do you think ?”
“There aren’t enough facts at this point, sir. I can’t make an intelligent call.”
“But what do you feel in your guts? What instincts do you have?”
“I only operate on facts, sir.”
“And that’s why you’ll never sit in my chair, Kylee.”
Branson looked shocked. He straightened himself. “Will that be all, sir?”
“That’s all.” His tone became saccharine. “Now, if it isn’t too much trouble, Kylee, I’d appreciate it if you would get the—” He bit his lower lip to keep from swearing. “Just get out of my sight, OK?”
Chapter 7
You are our shelter, and we are yours.
—From the Gospel of Veronica
“What’s that noise?” Dixie Lou asked, as they stepped out of the tent. “Sounds like an engine.”
“Seems to be coming from over there,” Tamara Himmel said, pointing across the roofs and black tent tops of the village.
“Just one of our generators,” Malia said, lying, “at the caretaker’s residence, by Prophet’s Rock.”
“Sounds bigger than that,” Dixie Lou said. “An airplane, maybe, or a helicopter?” She looked at the cerulean blue sky, saw nothing but thin, drifting clouds.
“No, it’s just our fancy new generator. I told you, we have the latest technology around here. Come, I will show you our advanced computer center.”
As Dixie Lou and her companions followed Malia past dusty tents and simple structures, worries floated through the Chairwoman’s mind, as they often did. She wondered if this was just a delaying trick, while Arab men—BOI agents?—were taking over her own camp at that very moment, murdering Alex, the she-apostles, and everyone there. She also worried about the whereabouts and fate of Lori Vale.
Dixie Lou heaved a deep sigh. The child of Lori . . . would it really be the missing twelfth she-apostle? She hated this situation, which was so much out of her control. Her thoughts shifted to another priority. Too many of them.
The Holy Women’s Bible.
Malia led the way into the most substantial structure in the town, a one-story, modular building that was at least twice as big as the tent in which they had all dined. They went through one doorway and then another, with doors closing behind them as they entered. Dixie Lou heard fans whirring, and the drone of a generator as it kicked on.
They entered a central room, and for a moment Dixie Lou caught her breath. Banks of computers and related equipment lined the walls and the center of the room. Arab women and young men busied themselves operating the machines.
“And now,” Malia said, as she paused at one of the terminals, “if you would hand me the microcylinder, I would be most happy to transmit it, as you specify.”
“I prefer to do it myself,” Dixie Lou said, trying not to reveal too much concern or emotion.
“As you wish. I will prepare the machine.”
As Malia got the computer going, Nancy Winters leaned close to Dixie Lou and whispered, “I don’t think we
“Yes, sir.” Some of the haughtiness was melting, from the application of heat.
“Do you think anyone important escaped?” Styx asked. He looked sidelong at a newly placed photograph on the wall, showing the destruction of Monte Konos in full color, with the top of the mountain afire like a volcano. It was a spectacular scene.
“Hard to say,” Branson responded. “Hopefully, it was just some low-level people who took the aircraft in the heat of battle, saving their own skins.”
“That might have happened, and in such an eventuality we’d have little to worry about, wouldn’t you agree? Guards—or other “low-levels” as you say—would probably ditch the aircraft at the first opportunity and be happy to escape with their lives.”
“That would seem likely.”
“Such people would not be likely to reorganize the UWW, would they?”
“No.”
“So, do you think the UWW is dead, a flopping, useless body without a head?”
“One would hope so.”
“But what do you think ?”
“There aren’t enough facts at this point, sir. I can’t make an intelligent call.”
“But what do you feel in your guts? What instincts do you have?”
“I only operate on facts, sir.”
“And that’s why you’ll never sit in my chair, Kylee.”
Branson looked shocked. He straightened himself. “Will that be all, sir?”
“That’s all.” His tone became saccharine. “Now, if it isn’t too much trouble, Kylee, I’d appreciate it if you would get the—” He bit his lower lip to keep from swearing. “Just get out of my sight, OK?”
Chapter 7
You are our shelter, and we are yours.
—From the Gospel of Veronica
“What’s that noise?” Dixie Lou asked, as they stepped out of the tent. “Sounds like an engine.”
“Seems to be coming from over there,” Tamara Himmel said, pointing across the roofs and black tent tops of the village.
“Just one of our generators,” Malia said, lying, “at the caretaker’s residence, by Prophet’s Rock.”
“Sounds bigger than that,” Dixie Lou said. “An airplane, maybe, or a helicopter?” She looked at the cerulean blue sky, saw nothing but thin, drifting clouds.
“No, it’s just our fancy new generator. I told you, we have the latest technology around here. Come, I will show you our advanced computer center.”
As Dixie Lou and her companions followed Malia past dusty tents and simple structures, worries floated through the Chairwoman’s mind, as they often did. She wondered if this was just a delaying trick, while Arab men—BOI agents?—were taking over her own camp at that very moment, murdering Alex, the she-apostles, and everyone there. She also worried about the whereabouts and fate of Lori Vale.
Dixie Lou heaved a deep sigh. The child of Lori . . . would it really be the missing twelfth she-apostle? She hated this situation, which was so much out of her control. Her thoughts shifted to another priority. Too many of them.
The Holy Women’s Bible.
Malia led the way into the most substantial structure in the town, a one-story, modular building that was at least twice as big as the tent in which they had all dined. They went through one doorway and then another, with doors closing behind them as they entered. Dixie Lou heard fans whirring, and the drone of a generator as it kicked on.
They entered a central room, and for a moment Dixie Lou caught her breath. Banks of computers and related equipment lined the walls and the center of the room. Arab women and young men busied themselves operating the machines.
“And now,” Malia said, as she paused at one of the terminals, “if you would hand me the microcylinder, I would be most happy to transmit it, as you specify.”
“I prefer to do it myself,” Dixie Lou said, trying not to reveal too much concern or emotion.
“As you wish. I will prepare the machine.”
As Malia got the computer going, Nancy Winters leaned close to Dixie Lou and whispered, “I don’t think we
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