The Oracle Year(112)

Her face turned sober. She looked at the Coach, who was giving them both a speculative look.

“Can I ask him a few questions, or are you planning to throw us out over Mile High Stadium?”

“Knock yourself out,” the woman said. “I’ve got some questions of my own.”

Leigh returned her focus to Will.

“Will, how did you know that, about the numbers? Are you sure that’s what they mean?” she asked.

“There are thirty-five elders in the council of biys, Leigh. It was in the news stories from the beginning, but I didn’t make the connection until I saw it in the paper again this morning and everything clicked. I can’t believe I didn’t see it earlier.”

She looked at him askance.

“And the four? How does that fit in?”

Will shrugged.

“You remember how I told you that the predictions came to me in a dream? They were all spoken. I heard two numbers and assumed the third was a number, too. But it’s not. It’s for, like ‘in favor of’—not the number. I just couldn’t see it until today.”

Leigh shook her head, silent for the moment.

“My turn,” the Coach interrupted. “I have one question.”

Will looked up at her.

“Did you just stop the Qandustan situation from going hot?” she asked.

Will didn’t hesitate.

“Yes,” he said. “I did.”

“A thank-you would be nice,” Leigh added. “Preferably before you shoot us in the head.”

The Coach crossed her arms and looked out the window for a long, long moment.

“Where to, ma’am?” the pilot asked. No answer.

“Well, huh,” the Coach said, finally. “I guess I’ve got my limits. I can’t do this. Looks like you two get to see tomorrow after all.”

“Uh, boss,” one of the guards spoke up, “I have to ask . . . doesn’t that screw us? I mean, the president gave us a job . . .”

“True,” the Coach said. “But as we’ve heard, he’s going to get cancer and probably die. I’m not worried about the president. We’re not going to kill the guy who headed off a nuclear war by making Tony Leuchten kneel in the dirt. That is an interesting person. You want a guy like that owing you a favor.”

The Coach, this small, elderly, unarmed woman, looked at her team.

“Any of you try to take him down, you will be stopped. By me. We clear?”

“Clear,” the guards said in unison.

“Now,” the Coach said, looking back at Will. “Can I drop you two anywhere?”

Will felt Leigh’s hand curl around his. And with that small gesture, the future opened to him.





August 23




“And in another example of what is being called the Oracle Effect, a historic peace accord was signed last night in the Gaza Strip between representatives of Israel and Palestine. The terms of the accord were negotiated by U.S. President Daniel Green, seen here at the signing in—”

Of the many, many things Reverend Hosiah Branson wished he currently had access to, perhaps highest on the list at the moment was a remote control, so as to mute the goddamn TV.

But the television was inside a wire cage mounted high on the wall, and the remote control was in the hands of the guards who oversaw the cafeteria as their own personal fiefdom, and Branson wasn’t getting anywhere near either of them.

He glanced around the cafeteria, a quick, furtive look designed specifically to avoid eye contact with any of the other prisoners. Light blue jumpsuits as far as the eye could see, a rumble of conversation. The sights and sounds of about a hundred men shoveling the garbage this facility called food into their mouths.

No one was looking directly at him, but he somehow had the sense that they were all very aware of his presence. Aware of the tray sitting on the table. Aware of its contents.

Aware of the date.

How did this happen? he thought, just the latest cycle of a question that ran on an endless loop in his head.

But of course, he knew. He had made himself the Oracle’s most public enemy. And the world loved the Oracle now, because the Oracle had saved the world. And so the Oracle’s most public enemy was the enemy of the world.

That included the prosecutor who had made the argument that Branson was a flight risk, and so should be held in jail until the criminal trial related to the attempted murder charges levied against him by the New York City District Attorney’s Office. It included the D.A. himself, who was once part of Branson’s circle of influence. It included the judge. It included his wife, whom he hadn’t seen since his imprisonment.

He looked back at the TV, where an oh-so-dignified Daniel Green was watching the Jew and the Arab shake hands.

It included the president of the United States, who had most assuredly cut ties with Reverend Hosiah Branson.

It included the entire world.

Everyone but Brother Jonas, at any rate. He visited fairly often. The man had proven to be loyal, when all was said and done.

Not that his loyalty would gain him all that much. Poor man had backed the wrong horse.

Branson looked down at his tray. On it was a yellowish puddle of instant mashed potatoes, a fleshy pile of limp, overcooked green beans, and a gray slab of protein covered by a splat of thick, sewagey sauce.