3:50 p.m.
10 minutes left
As Gavin, the tactical team agent Trevor had left me with, hustled me into the building, I tried to process what was happening and what I’d been able to piece together in the last ten minutes or so, running through what I knew:
And of course, I was here in the conference center with several hundred journalists who were all sending updates to their stations or channels on the Feeds.
After Gavin had worked with his team to control the crowd and keep everyone inside the auditorium, he led me through a side hallway to the backstage area so he could keep an eye on the reporters and also, at the same time, stay with me, as Trevor had requested.
An impeccably-dressed man in his fifties stepped up to the microphone on the stage, but even with the mic it took him a moment to get everyone’s attention. “I’m Artis Madison, the CEO of Terabyne Designs,” he said earnestly. “Here’s what we know: There was an explosion near the front gate. I want to reassure you that our security forces are on top of things. The best course of action right now is for us to stay here and let them deal with the situation outside.”
At first, I doubted he was going to be able to calm the crowd down, but he spoke with such authority, such earnestness and charisma, that the people listened and began to settle, one by one, back into their seats.
However, as they did, hands went up all over the auditorium from the media elite wanting an explanation and more information.
On the stage beside Madison were two crates, one on each side of the lectern.
He continued, “Before I address any of your questions, let me tell you about today’s announcement—about why you’re all here.” At that, the journalists began to lower their hands. “It has long bothered me that although we have the technology to allow Artificials to live on after their Catastrophic Terminal Events, we don’t have anything to allow humans to do the same after their natural deaths. If technology has brought us to the place where immortality is within the reach of machines, why can’t it be within the reach of human beings as well? With the release of our newest product here beside me onstage, it will be, and the Consciousness Realignment Algorithm will no longer be a place simply for Artificials to live on, but one for Naturals and Plussers to do so as well.”
He’s lying! a voice inside of me shouted. The CoRA isn’t real!
Then another voice: Or is it possible that he knows something Trevor and Jordan don’t?
“It’s a chip”—Madison gestured theatrically toward the crates—“That we’re calling the ‘Synapse.’”
My thoughts circled around what he was saying about hope and eternal life. No, I didn’t believe that heaven could be encapsulated in a piece of technology. As advanced as the Synapse might be, that would never happen.
But even if it could, what a small and sad heaven that would be. Living on forever in our current state—hurting and hurtful people languishing together with no hope of anything better. Eternal existence without the possibility of redemption or salvation? That wouldn’t be heaven, but an antechamber of hell.
We don’t become immortal because of a chip, only because of a Savior.
The one who died for us. The one who rose.
The one who suffered.
The one who wept.
And when I thought of Jesus, I thought of Naiobi and felt a piercing stab of grief.
Why, God? Why did you take my baby?
Time seemed to crack open.
A riot of pain clutched me.
And the tears came.
All that I’d been holding in, a shivering flood of dammed-up emotion, broke loose. Not just my anger with God—although that was present. Mostly, instead, it was pain, raw and glaring and unfathomable. I felt forsaken and alone.
There comes a point when hiding doesn’t work anymore, when diversions and denial just don’t cut it and you’re ready for the truth, whatever that might be.
And when it does come at you, when the truth slams full force into you, that is a gift—always—even though it may feel like a curse rather than a blessing at the time.
It did not feel like a blessing to me now. It felt like a weight too great to bear.
And then, for the first time since Naiobi’s death, I heard from God—not an audible voice speaking to my ears, but an inner voice, speaking to my heart: Do you want answers or a companion to walk with you through the questions?
And my reply: O God, I want both!
So did Jesus at Gethsemane. So did Jesus on the cross. And he chose the Father and his will over all, over everything else.
In that moment, I realized that if I had to choose between knowing the why and knowing the who, between closure or intimacy with the Lord, I would choose the Father too. Just as Jesus did. Even if I had to live lost in the questions, as long as I could live there with him beside me, I would be okay.
Yes, Jesus wept when he saw Jerusalem’s unbelief.
And now, so did I.
As I looked at my own.
* * *
Fog blows into his face. The wind is picking up.
As he makes his way toward the conference center, a notification comes through that Kestrel’s slate, which had been lost at the airport earlier, has reconnected to the Feeds. It’s here at Terabyne headquarters, in the auditorium, directly where he’s heading.
Someone took her slate at the airport and now it shows up on campus?
Angelo Natchez. Who else could it be?
Is he involved?
Why else would he take her slate?
He might be going after her.
Find him. Stop him. Go.
* * *
As I tried to hold back from crying too much, Gavin looked clueless as to how to help me and asked if I was okay, and I didn’t know how to tell him that I was and I wasn’t, both, at the same time.
Both broken and whole.
Both despairing and hopeful.
Both flawed and forever loved.
He offered to take me to the green room so I could have some privacy, and I nodded, even as I did my best to dry my tears.
But, as we started toward it, someone called out my name.
When I looked toward the doorway, Angelo Natchez appeared, hands up to show that he meant no harm, a satchel beside his feet. “I’m NCB,” he told Gavin, who had already drawn his weapon and aimed it at him. “Undercover. I’ll show you my ID.”
Gavin eyed him suspiciously but took a quick moment to confirm that Angelo was who he claimed to be, and then re-holstered his sidearm.
Angelo indicated his satchel, and then drew out my purse and slate.
“You took them?” I said. “But why?”
“We had intel that you were with Conrad.” His voice was urgent. Rushed. “I needed to find out what you knew, and the only way to do that without taking you into custody was by going through the info on your slate. Sorry it had to go down that way.”
As we spoke in hushed tones backstage, on the other side of the curtain, Artis Madison was busy at the microphone, fielding questions from the journalists, keeping them engaged.
“And the Cincinnati airport? Are you the reason the guards hassled me?”
“I needed time to get on the flight.” Then he quickly turned to Gavin. “Listen, I came back here looking for someone on your team. Two of your men out there are missing.”
“What?”
“Yes. I need you to—”
But before he could finish, a man carrying a gun burst through the door beside me, saw the three of us standing there, grabbed me by the shoulder, and dragged me back toward him. He locked one arm around my neck and used his other hand to angle a gun barrel up against the side of my head.
O God, please, no!
As both Angelo and Gavin drew on him, he said, “Drop your weapons or she dies.”
“If she dies, then you do too,” Angelo said calmly, but not at all reassuringly for me.
“Drop them,” another man called, emerging from the shadows behind him. He was armed with one of the Tac team’s assault rifles. “Now.”
Gavin and Angelo looked unsure what to do, but eventually Angelo nodded and they both laid their weapons down and kicked them out of the way.
The man who’d appeared behind them quickly restrained them with plastic cuffs from a duffel bag full of them, then signaled to the man who still had the gun aimed at my head. “Alright, Julian. Let’s do this.”
“Yes, sir.”
Then, the man who was apparently named Julian hustled me forward, between the center slit of the curtains, and onto the middle of the stage, in front of the reporters.