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Back The Last Christian
Chapters (58)
  1. Cover
  2. Other Books by This Author
  3. Title Page
  4. Copyright
  5. Dedication
  6. Acknowledgments
  7. Prologue
  8. 1
  9. 2
  10. 3
  11. 4
  12. 5
  13. 6
  14. 7
  15. 8
  16. 9
  17. 10
  18. 11
  19. 12
  20. 13
  21. 14
  22. 15
  23. 16
  24. 17
  25. 18
  26. 19
  27. 20
  28. 21
  29. 22
  30. 23
  31. 24
  32. 25
  33. 26
  34. 27
  35. 28
  36. 29
  37. 30
  38. 31
  39. 32
  40. 33
  41. 34
  42. 35
  43. 36
  44. 37
  45. 38
  46. 39
  47. 40
  48. 41
  49. 42
  50. 43
  51. 44
  52. 45
  53. 46
  54. 47
  55. 48
  56. 49
  57. 50
  58. Author’s Note

“Abby, I’m just trying to help you understand your own faith—”

“By telling me what I’ve always believed is mistaken.”

“Not mistaken, just incomplete. Abby, if you had some brain implants, you could read faster and process information more quickly. You’d see the connections. All of this would become clearer…to…you.”

I’m not sure she heard my last two words. She turned, walked to the front door, and left the house, slamming the door behind her.

“Abby!”

I opened the door in time to see her climb in the car and speed off. The gardener looked up at me. I shrugged.

Shrewd, Creighton. Very shrewd.

I walked back inside the house and accessed the Grid for another car. I returned to Lauren’s and went straight for the medicine cabinet. I hadn’t had a headache in years; I couldn’t imagine why this one had come upon me and had lasted so long. I lay on the couch and accessed Alistair.

“You look ill, Creighton. Have you consulted a doctor?” My Grid interface was lecturing me.

“No. Thank you, Alistair. I just have a headache. I took something for it. I’ll contact a doctor if things don’t improve by the morning. Right now I’d like to continue my research into the reliability of New Testament manuscripts.”

Five minutes later I leaned back against the pillow on the couch.

“Do you wish to continue, Creighton?”

“I’m sorry, Alistair. My headache seems to be getting worse. I can’t concentrate. Discontinue, please.”

I lay there for ten more minutes, then started to feel nauseous. I got up, lost my balance, fell over the coffee table, and threw up on the floor. I got up again, weaved my way to the bathroom, found the toilet, and threw up again. In a few minutes the dry heaves started. I retched off and on for perhaps half an hour—I lost track of time.

I raised myself up and wiped my mouth with a towel. I looked at the mess I had made. I’d have a homebot clean it up. I just wanted to sleep. I glanced at the stairs across the living room and knew I couldn’t make it.

I wobbled across the living room and collapsed onto the couch.

32

The large wooden doors to the congressional hearing room opened silently. Bryson Nichols leaned back in the chair marked “Chairwoman Cahill.”

“Welcome to my subcommittee, Damien,” he boomed.

Damien Cleary strode down the main aisle between rows of empty chairs. “Are you aspiring to political office now, Nichols, or have you simply switched your favorite VR location?”

Nichols smiled. “Why would anyone want to occupy one of these chairs when they can wield real power? No, I’m simply getting used to the room. I always do before they want me to testify.”