Mt Cotton, July 2020

 

Shively ushered Pete into his private chamber. The caverns transformed into something akin to an administration building, with three levels of offices connected by stairs and elevators. Pete immediately disliked the light. It was harsh and artificial.

They sat and Pete asked Shively about the decisions that had been made on who to save at Mt Cotton.

"Try to tell some of the Congressmen from the Deep South that we’ve brought a naturalised Chinese Cellist down and not their brother. You get to see people’s prejudices surface pretty quickly."

"Did all the Governors make it? The Congress?"

"Nearly all of the Senate. Only half of the House. Two thirds of the Governors." Shively replied and closed his eyes ruefully. Pete still couldn’t quite reconcile the surreality of sitting there, chatting with the Secretary of State, one-on-one like they were old university pals. Pete instinctively liked him. He couldn’t quite fathom how comfortable he was sitting with the man who was three heartbeats from the Presidency. If only I could have been this disarming, Pete thought, and remembered Steve entering his office in Woodend, piquing with nerves.

"Jesus," Pete intoned finally.

"Yes, we could use him here right now." Shively’s response was half regret and half joke. "Half the people here, think his arrival is, in fact, imminent." He raised his eyebrows.

"The Apocalypse," Pete wondered thoughtfully. He looked at Shively. "How’s that dynamic working down here?" He hadn’t given thought to the religiosity of so much of America. "The Australian’s who are left aren’t terribly religious..." and then weighed the benefits of religion in his mind. "...but a good number are murderous. So I guess count your blessings..."

"There’s a lot of prayer," Shively replied, answering him. "And a lot of speculation. I grew up in a Baptist household Pete. We went to church every Sunday and I continued the practice throughout my life. I still attend the church services on Sundays, but my very secular education really superimposed itself over an unquestioning belief in the good book. I spend a lot more time seeking answers to this nightmare from the astrophysicists here, rather than from the clergy in all their hues and persuasions."

"What’s the ratio of physicists to priests?"

"Two men of religion for each three physicists," he said regretfully. Pete raised an eyebrow. "This is America," Shively went on, a note of apology in his response. "Walk with me." Davis ushered him back into the complex. The two of them fell silent for some time, and made their way towards what seemed to be the centre of the facility.

"Can I confide in you Pete?" Shively said in a tone that made Pete turn. The Secretary smiled wanly. "I lost my faith when I was Governor of Florida. I had veto power on the execution of a Hispanic man – Luis Monzon – who’d killed his parents when he was sixteen years old. He’d been on death row for over thirty years. They were pimping him and his twelve-year-old sister out and had been for more than five years. That evidence didn’t make it to trial, but five years before his execution, some videos turned up from a sting operation into a paedophile ring. His sister’s abuse amongst them. It was horrific."

"Was he executed?" Pete asked gingerly.

"Yes." Shively said, a deep regret in his response. "I sought counsel from the local religious leaders. The responses were insane. All this Old Testament horseshit. Jesus barely made an appearance unless I brought him up. The only ones who showed any compassion or nuance were a rabbi and the local mufti from the Shia mosque in Broward County."

Pete looked at him with empathetic eyes.

"Don’t be too sympathetic Pete." Shively's eyes had filled with shame. "I ultimately caved to the State Senators. I was a Republican holding on to the Governorship by a half-percent margin with an election looming. I signed his death warrant."

"I shot a twenty-four-year-old man through the heart, Mr Secretary. He’d just stoved in the head of a paedophile my brother had caught in the act, early on after the world had cleared. He was a stupid kid who’d threatened us. There’s not a day that goes by when I don’t think about watching his chest explode through the scope of my rifle. I can feel the weight of that trigger as I squeezed it back."

He looked across at the Secretary who was staring at him intensely, his lips pursed.

"How many other ways could I have handled that situation," Pete questioned, as much to himself as the Secretary. "I shot him out of pure emotion. On the spot, my reaction was to kill him." He looked across at Shively, who was silent. It was now his turn for a wan smile.

"The most trenchant advocate for Monzon’s death is down here with us. He’d cheer on your story. Retribution, Satan, evil, the righteous. You’d get it all from him: ‘In your heart God told you whaht t’do’." Shively had affected a deep regional accent. "Fucking clown," he smouldered. His eyes had become flinty, remembering back in time to a place he hated. Eventually his face relaxed. He smiled, came back to himself, and let out a long breath.

"How’s your religion?" he asked finally.
"I’m a lapsed Anglican."
Shively nodded thoughtfully.
"How well do you know your Bible Pete?"
"Surprisingly well. It’s one of the most important texts ever written. I’ve read it through a dozen

times. And the Buddhist scriptures, and the Koran, once, and Vedic sacred texts. My wife was always bemused by my devotion to the process. She said I was the most religious atheist she’d ever met. But my interest was more sociological."

Shively cut short his meditation with a conflicted but relieved look.
"Could I implore you to make that scientific enquiry appear a little more faith-based?"
Pete turned his head at an angle.
"We’ve been waiting for you to arrive Pete. We know a fair amount about you from..." he

hesitated momentarily, selecting his words carefully. "...a trusted source, and your CIA file, and whatever we could find on the Internet, which wasn’t much. You’re not a social media guy."

Pete smiled. "The social media thing missed me. And I’m somewhat of an introvert – although nobody believes that – least of all my wife. But given you’ve got Eli Nusbaum," Pete called out the source, "you’ve got a better read on me than if you’d had a whole lot of inane remarks about my holidays and restaurant dining..."

"We still don’t know as much as we’d like," Shively went on without giving away his source. "So, I’ve been anxious to find out who I was dealing with. I feared you could be a religious madman or its extreme opposite, a steadfast hater of religion. Both would have posed difficulties for different reasons."

"I’m not sure I understand," Pete replied quizzically.

"We have some very big responsibilities we hope you’ll fill." They’d been walking for more than ten minutes, and Shively had turned off the major tunnel they'd been into a smaller side passage. Beyond glass doors, three desks were set along one side. Two were empty, and one was occupied by a man in naval uniform. There was a pair of double doors beyond him that were being guarded by marines in full dress uniforms. They carried assault rifles.

"If you’d been an anti-religious fundamentalist, then that would have caused us problems selling you down here. If you’d been a religious fundamentalist, well, that would have caused us problems up top."

They’d arrived at the doors and the guards came to a salute. Shively made a tiny nod of acknowledgement.

"What responsibilities did you have in mind?" Pete asked, intrigued but also slightly apprehensive.

Shively put his hand on the door handle and pushed it down. "We’re hoping you might consider a role with us – aboveground." He opened the door wide and ushered Pete in. "Best not to profane the Lord in here."

"Mr Birch," he said formally as Pete stepped inside. "Franklin Allard, the President of the United States."