Chapters (70)
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Chapter 23
- Chapter 24
- Chapter 25
- Chapter 26
- Chapter 27
- Chapter 28
- Chapter 29
- Chapter 30
- Chapter 31
- Chapter 32
- Chapter 33
- Chapter 34
- Chapter 35
- Chapter 36
- Chapter 37
- Chapter 38
- Chapter 39
- Chapter 40
- Chapter 41
- Chapter 42
- Chapter 43
- Chapter 44
- Chapter 45
- Chapter 46
- Chapter 47
- Chapter 48
- Chapter 49
- Chapter 50
- Chapter 51
- Chapter 52
- Chapter 53
- Chapter 54
- Chapter 55
- Chapter 56
- Chapter 57
- Chapter 58
- Chapter 59
- Chapter 60
- Chapter 61
- Chapter 62
- Chapter 63
- Chapter 64
- Chapter 65
- Chapter 66
- Chapter 67
- Chapter 68
- Chapter 69
- Afterword
He thrust a pointing finger ceilingward. “You all know this. But you don’t question it. As a scientist, I must ask the hard physical questions. Some among you argue that the ship has been motivated by the wish to save us—a beneficent savior. Some of you say WorShip is a natural response to our savior. Natural response? But what if we are guinea pigs?”
“What are your origins, Oakes?”
That was Rachel Demarest again. Beautiful. She could not have performed better for him had she been programmed. Didn’t she know that by the best guess, the naturals outnumbered the clones almost four to one?—perhaps even more. And she already had admitted to being a clone.
“I was a child of Earth,” Oakes said, and once more his voice was its most reasonable. He looked directly at her, then back at the audience. A little barbering of the truth was called for now. No need to bring up the fact that old Edmond Kingston had chosen him as successor. “Most of you know my history. I was taken by the ship and trained as Chaplain/Psychiatrist. Don’t you understand what that means? The ship directed my training to lead WorShip! Don’t any of you find something strange in this?”
Right on cue, Rachel intruded: “That seems the most natural . . .”
“Natural?” Oakes allowed free reign to his rage. “A mirror and recorder would have done just as good a job as such a Chaplain! If we have no free will, our WorShip is sham! How can the ship expect to condition me for such a task? No! I question what that ship tells us. I don’t even doubt. I question! And I don’t like some of the answers.”
This was public blasphemy on a scale few of them had ever imagined. Coming from the Chaplain/Psychiatrist it amounted to an open revolt. Oakes allowed the shock to become well seated in them before hammering it home. He raised his face to the domed ceiling and shouted: “Why don’t you strike me dead, Ship?”
The hall became one long-held breath while Oakes turned and smiled at Murdoch, then turned the smile on his audience. He reduced the amplifier volume to the minimum required for reaching the hall’s extremities.