The Oracle Year(9)
“Seventy-two hours. They can liquidate some assets if they have to, but their last fund prospectus said they had almost that much in investment accounts ready to go. They’ll need some approvals and things, though. It’s probably a valid request.”
Oracle: Funds must be received within 72 hours.
SWBG: Agreed. To the same account?
Oracle: Yes. Should we complete the remainder of your interview period?
SWBG: Yes, but one last thing. If you have defrauded us, please know that we will use every resource at our command to destroy you and get our money back.
Will frowned, glaring through his laptop’s screen. His hands were suddenly very steady indeed.
Oracle: Destroy me? Ten words on the Site. That’s all I’d need. For you, or for anyone in the entire world. Think about that, assholes.
Will finished the interview. He thought the fund seemed a bit muted after that last exchange—understandable. He didn’t know the answers to any of their remaining questions, which was well and good. The pressure of another hit might have killed him.
He closed the chat program and looked at Hamza, who was back in the armchair, staring at their bank account balance on his computer. He seemed stunned, or even maybe a little bit stoned.
Will leaned back on the couch and closed his eyes.
Just oranges, he thought. Fruit, for God’s sake. How much harm could it possibly do?
Chapter 4
Reverend Hosiah Branson blinked the sweat out of his eyes and focused on the young woman in front of him. She smiled up at him, her eyes glazed in rapture. She wasn’t beautiful, but she was earnest, and devoted, and that made up for any plainness in her features.
Branson could feel the surge coming over him. He threw his head back, closing his eyes. A stream of ecstatic noise poured out of his slack mouth, his tongue moving with its own will. He stiffened and reached out. He placed both hands on the woman’s face. Her eyelids fluttered closed against his palms in spidery little spasms.
One last gasp, and he pushed the girl’s face away from him, his ululations ceasing at the same moment. He brought his arms around in a wide circle to clasp his hands in front of him. He opened his eyes.
His deacons had caught the girl as she fell. She lay cradled in their arms like a newborn, her spindly, pale limbs draped bonelessly this way and that. Branson reached out to her, his face clothed in a broad, reassuring smile.
The girl grasped his hand. Her grip was faint, and he could feel her trembling. Hosiah pulled her to her feet.
“Go now, and walk in God’s light,” he said, his voice amplified a hundred times by the microphone on his lapel.
The girl’s face collapsed into a mess of overwhelmed tears and red-faced huffing. Spotlights nestled in the ceiling high above flared into life, painting out a path for the girl to walk back into the audience. One of the Sisters appeared and took the girl’s arm, gently escorting her away.
Branson was tired. It was good work, but draining. She would be the last for today.
He turned to face his audience: thousands upon thousands of people, arrayed in loose rows on the cathedral floor below him. Unceasing motion filled his view—people swaying, dancing, clapping their hands, all overcome with the glorious truth of the Lord.
The sound of the crowd, somehow perfectly supported by the singing of the choir in their loft off to the left of the altar, rose to fill his cathedral, his beautiful stained-glass palace.
Branson lifted his hands above his head, and the choir held a long chord and abruptly ceased singing. The crowd quieted quickly, ready for what they knew was coming: the day’s final sermon.
“The Oracle,” he said, speaking softly, his voice picked up and amplified throughout the cathedral by his lapel mic.
A few shouts from the crowd—condemnations—but mostly hushed, expectant silence.
“The Oracle is a poison,” Hosiah continued. “That monstrous thing, peddling lies to this world through the Site. I am so, so sad—to my very soul—to see that some few small-minded, faithless individuals have been suckered by its con game.”
He paused, took a handkerchief from his breast pocket, mopped his brow. A deep breath, then a launch into the next phase . . . the red-faced, forceful blast of brimstone his audience expected.
“Exodus 20, verse 5. Thou shalt not worship false idols, for God will not tolerate any affection for other gods!
“Do you hear that? God will take his vengeance on those who worship pretenders. He is a jealous god! And rightly so, because he is the one true God, and woe . . . I say woe . . . to those who would challenge him!
“Exodus 20, verse 6. But if you worship the Lord, and obey him, he will grant you love, and care, and great prosperity for all your days!
“The Oracle is a tool of the devil—he may well be the devil, active in our daily lives in a seductive, novel fashion. The Site . . . giving us lies packaged as if they are great gifts. Is it any wonder that so many foolish people have bought into the devil’s game in these godless times?
“But in spite of all this, I am hopeful, my friends. I have hope, for I know that you, my soldiers of Christ . . . you are well equipped to do battle with that sly trickster. You already have the only weapon you will ever need.”
Hosiah reached behind him and held out his hand, palm up. An attendant slapped a leather-bound book into his hand, making a meaty, satisfying sound. Hosiah held the book up to the crowd, stage lights glinting off the golden words etched into its cover.