The Oracle Year(34)

The ads were a full-court press—Internet, radio, print, even a few carefully chosen TV spots, all designed to raise doubts about the Oracle’s origins, intentions, and abilities. The ad agency had focused on a single key concept during their presentation—they wanted to encourage the congregation to become “Detectives for Christ,” investigating their friends and neighbors for signs that the Oracle might be among them.

The other man hadn’t moved. He was still frowning down at his phone.

“Jonas,” Branson said. “Did you hear what I just said?”

“Yes, Reverend,” he said, his voice hollow. “You need to look at this.”

He thrust out his phone.

The screen was displaying the Site; familiar lines of black text, with the twenty-some predictions Branson had read so many times they were almost as familiar to him as scripture. Below those should have been the Oracle’s e-mail address, with the tantalizing “This is not all I know” line, but that had been moved farther down the page. Now, below the old predictions, new sentences had appeared—twenty-three of them, numbered in sequence just like the first set of predictions. The format looked identical—a date in the future, and then a few words describing an event set to happen on that date. But the new predictions were not entirely like the old.

Each was written in red text, the color standing out starkly against the plain white background. Blood on a snowfield.

Branson devoured the twenty-three new predictions, reading them once quickly to see if his own name was anywhere in them, then a second time for content, and a third time, much more slowly, delving for meaning.

“Out,” he said. “Everyone but Jonas.”

The stylist and the makeup artist both set down their tools and left without a word.

“It might not be as bad as it seems,” Jonas said, sounding a bit desperate. “We can increase funding to our outreach programs. Our Ministries help people all over the world. We just need to explain that . . .”

“Enough, Jonas,” Branson broke in. “Either he has to go, or we will. It’s that simple.”

“Does this change things for the meeting in Dubai?” Jonas said.

Branson thought for a moment.

“Yes,” he said. “Move it up. As soon as we can get everyone there.”

He stood up, handing the phone back to Jonas. He removed the paper collar from around his neck and straightened his bright blue tie underneath. He studied his reflection in the mirror.

Strong, he thought. You look strong. No one would ever know you just got kicked in the balls.

Branson strode out of the dressing room and headed to the stage, hearing the swelling music, the shouted exhortations of the laypeople who warmed up the congregation for him, the cheers of the assembled crowd. He walked faster, wanting to get out there, to feed off the energy of his people, recharge his batteries with a little of that old-time Jesus love.

He walked through the wings to the edge of the stage and took the microphone and encouraging smile offered to him by an attractive young intern. He stepped out in front of the crowd, listening to the roar as they caught sight of him. A joyful noise, and that was a fact.

Branson’s view of the audience was blotted out by the spotlights shining on him—he only had a clear view of the first several rows.

And in those rows, at least every third person was staring down at their hands, enraptured. In those hands, glowing rectangles of white light, about the size of a deck of cards, with red lines running across them.





Chapter 13




A bright, impossible-to-ignore, rectangular light, a few rows down and to the right.

Hamza let out a loud, theatrical sigh, pure exasperation. Miko put her hand on his leg.

“Don’t say anything,” she whispered. “You get mad every time and it never does any good. They just get angry right back, and then you sit here pissed for the rest of the movie.”

Hamza leaned over and spoke softly into her ear.

“It’s just so goddamn rude,” he said. “Ten ads before the movie telling people to shut off their phones, and that guy decides the rules are for other people.”

“Just relax,” Miko said. “He’ll turn it off in a second.”

The man using his phone turned to the woman next to him and spoke to her, showing her the screen. A moment later, she had her phone out as well.

“Come on,” Hamza said, no longer whispering. “Shut it off.”

The couple ignored them. Another phone lit up, then another. The infection spread rapidly, until all around them, on every side, screenlight invaded the darkness, and for Hamza, realization finally dawned.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his own phone, pulling up a browser.

“What are you doing?” Miko said. “Two wrongs don’t make a—”

Hamza showed her his screen—the Site.

“Has it changed?” he said. “I can’t look.”

Miko took the phone and swiped her thumb upward along the screen, scrolling through the predictions. The text turned red, and Miko frowned. She read the new lines, then silently handed the phone to Hamza. He scanned the text, then clicked off the phone and sat, staring at the movie screen.

He took a deep breath, held it, let it out. Then another.

“Come on,” Hamza said, grabbing his coat and stepping through the row toward the aisle.