The computer never stops thinking about you and your standard patterns. It makes predictions and learns from its mistakes. Eventually, the computer knows what you’re going to do long before you know yourself … which is pretty handy for law enforcement.’
‘And would be very handy for science,’ added Jen. ‘Pity … ’
‘Oh well,’ said Lammas. ‘Just gives you more time to cook up a story.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
There was a sudden silence. Even the noise from outside seemed miles away as Jen stared a challenge at Major Lammas.
‘Convert the data,’ he laughed. ‘Scientific code for cook up a story.’
‘You don’t accept science, Major Lammas?’ asked Ronny, grinning from ear to ear, and in that moment Conan understood the guest list. Ronny Kwai was a journalist whose stock in trade was conflict.
‘It depends what you mean by science,’ said Lammas in his compelling baritone. ‘Demonstrable advances in medicine or engineering with obvious, tangible benefits are fair enough. Even advances in computer gaming like those appalling drop shots are demonstrable science … although the church deplores the idea of young people seeking fulfilment through fantasy.’
‘Just one fantasy at a time, you reckon?’ asked Conan, getting a withering look from Lammas and Captain Roberts.
‘But so-called cosmology,’ Lammas continued, ‘… relying on arcane mathematics and vast oceans of data … requires a massive leap of faith.’
‘The maths and data are not arcane,’ said Jen. ‘Not for those who’ve done the groundwork.’
‘Done the groundwork,’ quoted Lammas. ‘Scientific code for been indoctrinated.’
There was a bit of a buzz about the table as opinions polarised.
‘The fact that you don’t understand it doesn’t turn it into fantasy,’ said Conan. ‘Don’t drag science down to your own level.’
A number of people laughed. Ming gave Conan a delighted smile, but Captain Roberts glared at him and moved her chair further away, as waiters placed steaming dishes of fried rice about the table, accompanied by a Szechuan stir fry that smelled sweetly of onions, garlic and chilli.
‘You’re not a believer, Agent Tooley?’ enquired Lammas.
‘No … and neither are you.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
The ice in Lammas’ voice had frozen all other conversation and the entire table was now focussed on Conan.
‘Okay,’ he said, feeling a little drunkenly immortal. ‘This is what I reckon about god. Not only do I not believe … I don’t believe you believe. I don’t believe anyone has ever believed, one hundred percent, because the whole thing’s absurd. It’s about power … that’s all. Money and power. The Army of God is your power base … Major … and don’t tell anyone different because it’s a lie.’
There was a stunned flash of outrage around the table but Conan grinned, despite the uneasy suspicion that The Army of God might be able to pull strings to damage his career, such as it was. Lammas was silent until the anger on his behalf subsided.
‘I’m surprised you’re not working for the diplomatic corps,’ he said. ‘But you’re right … belief in God is a kind of power, but it’s only personal. How can I, or the church, have power over others when we share the same belief and are all equal under God?’
‘But you’re not equal … are you, Major?’
‘My rank is purely administrative. We are a large organisation … for which I daily thank God … and need to delegate authority for the purposes of governance and logistics. It is not power to be wielded like a pharaoh … or even a federal police agent.’
It was a well made point and Conan laughed with the others. ‘I suppose it’s true that I do wield some authority on behalf of the state … but at least the need for that authority is based on something real.’
‘You’re claiming the church is not real, Agent Tooley?’
‘It probably wouldn’t be,’ said Conan, ‘… if not for the Epistola Clementis.’
And there it was, the black look on Lammas’ face that once again sent Conan’s antennae into tingling overdrive.
‘The what?’ enquired Ming.
‘Shall I explain?’ Conan asked Lammas. ‘Or will you?’
Lammas composed himself, took an elegant sip of wine, and said, ‘Agent Tooley is referring to an old document from the early church. It has no modern relevance and is probably apocryphal … but some anti-church crusaders will try to tell you it debunks the whole of Christianity.’
‘Ridiculous,’ sneered Major Maddox, her chins wobbling with indignation.
‘I thought so too, when I heard about it,’ laughed Conan.
‘Why haven’t we heard about this before?’ asked Ronny. ‘If it’s so important?’
‘That’s the interesting point,’ said Conan. ‘There’s hardly anything anywhere about the Epistola Clementis. It’s like there’s been a massive cover up.’
‘Covering what, exactly?’ asked Major Lammas.
‘The way the church cooked up a story,’ said Conan, getting a delighted laugh from Ming, but mostly silence and confusion from the others.
Ronny, playing host, deftly changed the subject at that point so Conan took the opportunity to tuck into the chicken and prawn stir fries and was blown away by the explosion of flavours which went perfectly with the Margaret River Semillon that one of the waiters kept topped up by his right hand.
Others gave their attention to the food also and the buzz of conversation returned.
‘You have some interesting ideas,’ said Ming, smiling at Conan. ‘I’ll bet you’re a Scorpio.’
‘I’m a strange case,’ said Conan, ‘I was born in October but I’m actually Pisces.’
‘How interesting.’
Conan laughed, as a fresh dish of cubed beef in a tangy pink sauce was placed within gorging distance.
‘I think you might have got me into trouble,’ said Ming.
‘How’d I do that?’
‘Major Maddox runs the hospital where I work, and the look she gave me when I laughed at your joke … I think my days are numbered.’
‘Oh … sorry about that.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘My department has so little work these days.’
‘Really? In paediatrics?’
‘They’ve
