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  The major religious traditions were represented by nine persons, one person each for this ad hoc council, called the Council of Faith. “Cataclysmic change is descending upon the earth,” the Holy See had stated in its invitation to the various religious leaderships. “We invite you to gather to discuss the opportunities for great change.” Rather a mysterious summons, yet the response had been unanimous. All those bodies who had been invited had dispatched an ambassador to Rome, for each had held a piece to the enigmatic puzzle that faced them. The duty to save their followers trumped any conflict in ideology.

  The Dalai Llama, exiled spiritual leader of Tibetan Buddhists and one of the most recognized faces in the world, had flown in from London for this “summit of summits,” as some in the press had dubbed it. “Enlightenment not shared is not enlightenment at all,” he had said upon his departure from Heathrow amid extraordinarily high security.

  A Hindu holy man of Mumbai, India, had provided this insight: “This is but another turn in the eternal cycle of death and reincarnation. In our belief, Shiva the destroyer and Vishnu the preserver are forces of dark energies and light and are the fabric of our universe.”

  Representatives of Judaism and Islam, two faiths that had sprung from the same patriarchal figure, Abraham, came to sit side by side for this conference of world religions, as had Orthodox and Protestant Christians. The Tao, the ancient “way” to faith and salvation, was represented as well, as were Sikhs, who believed in a continual cycle of reincarnation until all beings merged with One God.

  Genaro welcomed them to his home and the members of the extraordinary body listened to his words, spoken in Italian and English, with translations provided by linguists brought along for that purpose. Only the Dalai Lama sat imperturbably alone, a solitary saffron-robed figure among a collection of clerics vested in the differing styles of their religions.

  “Our human situation is being affected, or perhaps I should say afflicted, in a way not seen since some of our most ancient scriptures were written down by distant ancestors. Both science and religion are reporting strange phenomena in this age, unlike any in memory. These forces, which may be called ‘evil’ are manifesting themselves in the lives of many billions here on Earth. Why? Well, that is for us as theologians to attempt to answer. But even before that, it is our responsibility to act to save our fellow human beings from a dark terror unlike any other known to mankind.

  “There have been natural phenomena of late that, in themselves, are not threatening to the entire world, but taken together indicate the possibility of malevolent forces at work: earthquakes, floods, potential pandemics of disease, even mental instability that manifests itself in man-made catastrophes such as war and genocide. There have always been events that have created misfortune and disaster for man, but the level of instability has struck us as something new. Something which may endanger all of humanity.”

  Pope Genaro looked around the table that gleamed and reflected the room on its brilliant surface.

  “But we do not represent all the faiths of this world. We cannot be universal, by our very nature. Therefore, how can we speak for any who are not represented here? There must be millions of them…,” stated the imam, a world-renowned Muslim scholar from Alexandria, Egypt. He spoke the words aloud, but each of the men at the table—and all were men—held the same thought in his mind.

  “Of course, we can only do our best, both in the name of those of our own faiths and for all the people of the world. That is what we are called to do,” the chief rabbi of Jerusalem responded.

  The Sikh leader, a tall man in a somber gray suit with a starched white turban, smiled sadly and said, “All gods are subject to mankind’s ways, whether they care to be or not. That is, when we choose the path of evil over the path of good and betray the soul for base purposes, not only do we ourselves suffer, but so does the force for all good in the universe.”

  “Let us be faithful, then, to our beliefs and in one another,” the pope said. “And let us convoke this urgent meeting with prayer. I ask that each leader present offer a prayer of his choosing, in the words of his faith, to move our minds and stir our hearts with purpose in this hour. For we each have been given signs, regardless of our beliefs, and these signs point to a coming event that threatens the future of man. We may not be able to avoid this fate, but we must strive to help all of mankind face this crisis.”

  * * *

  Outside Rome, in the Italian countryside, farmers awoke that day to discover that a large meteorite had fallen to earth and scorched their land. Livestock lay dead throughout a several-square-kilometer area, and crops, mostly barley and corn, were ruined. Their lives were ruined, as well, with the loss of half a year’s income and the need to replenish the dead livestock that would have provided milk and meat for hundreds of families in the region.

  The event made the local newspapers and television news but got little mention beyond that.

  CHAPTER

  3

  Marcus Jackson was a very popular President of the United States. As an African American who had faced cultural and political obstacles all his life with quiet determination and a solid core of honorable ethics, he worked tirelessly toward his goals, and those traits helped him to achieve the nation’s highest office. Married to a Vietnamese woman who was a naturalized citizen, this power couple was a poster for tolerance and social cohesion. It didn’t hurt that their fifteen-year-old son was a charming and intelligent young man who seemed to be cut from the same cloth as his father. While his parents worked hard at shielding their son from the world and its evils, his sunny personality had shone through and he succeeded in winning the hearts of the most recalcitrant. Not since the Kennedys had a presidential family been so embraced by all Americans.

  POTUS, as he was called now (because he had spent twenty years in the military and felt most comfortable with this nickname), stared at a large flat-paneled television screen displaying the huge devastation caused by a massive earthquake in Turkey. Deep in his heart he knew that this would be yet another crisis for his office to deal with. Although he was given the immediate reports of the quake from his State Department personnel, he wanted to see how the media were covering the cataclysmic event.

  “The unusual thing about the earthquake is the area that it has affected,” the announcer was saying. The scope of the earthquake was unprecedented. It had covered almost 200,000 square miles, or roughly two-thirds the total area of Turkey. Equally alarming was the strength of the earthquake, which at 9.5 on the Richter scale, matched the Chilean earthquake in May of 1960, one of the most severe in history.

  “We, of course, have no way of determining yet the extent of casualties from the earthquake, but estimates run as high as two million,” the announcer said in somber tones.

  “Obviously, we are unable to get to some of the more remote parts of Turkey, but here are pictures for Istanbul.”

  The screen was filled with images of the city, now reduced to piles of rubble, dazed-looking survivors walking around as if lost.

  “Here is the famous Blue Mosque, built by Sultan Ahmed in the seventeenth century. As you can see, the cascading domes have all collapsed, as have the six minarets.”

  It was during this initial report that the breaking news came that Charlene St. John, the internationally known song diva, was going to give a concert from Mexico City, with the total proceeds “one hundred percent,” the announcer stressed, “to be given to Turkey relief. We are told that not even the normal expenses of producing such a show will be deducted from the gross proceeds.”

  “Charley, find out if that is true,” POTUS said to his appointments secretary. Charley was Charley Crawford, the captain that POTUS had pulled from a burning Humvee at Saba al Bor, Iraq, nine years earlier, and was POTUS’s most trusted aide.

  “Yes, sir,” Charley replied, limping out of the room on his prosthetic leg.

  Jackson stared at the footage of the devastation that rocked Turkey and knew that the American resp
onse would have to be swift and massive. After watching several hours of nonstop news reporting from the devastated nation of Turkey, Jackson was brought out of the hypnotism that was the news cycle by Win Jackson, the President’s lovely wife, who reminded POTUS that she had purchased a pay-per-view for a current Charlene St. John concert as she was one of St. John’s many devoted fans.

  “As horrible as it is, the devastation in Turkey will still be there after the concert,” Win said. “You spend so much of your time worrying about the problems of the whole world, it seems. Could we not have a little beauty in our lives?”

  “Of course we can,” POTUS said, smiling gently and switching channels.

  Charlene St. John was dazzling in a sequined, body-hugging dress that caught the spots and winked back in thousands of tiny flashes of light. She began the concert with Ave Maria, then Panis Angelicus. After that she covered some songs, then sang a few of her own. Every song was met with a thunderous ovation.

  Then the lights changed and she stood alone in a single blue spot, surrounded by darkness. The darkness was filled by a few bars of music.

  “Oh,” Win said, leaning forward expectantly. “Listen, this is her signature song. Isn’t it beautiful?”

  Do you see the light

  Of all creation: the day, the night?

  A universe of peace and love

  Of goodness that comes down from above

  Take his hand

  And you will understand

  That we are one

  We are one

  We are one

  After the concert was over, POTUS called his aide into the office. “Charley, would you try to get Miss St. John on the telephone for me?” POTUS said.

  After a number of minutes, Charley handed POTUS the receiver. “I have her for you, Mr. President,” he said.

  “Thank you,” POTUS said. “Charlene?”

  “Hello?” Charlene replied in a tentative voice.

  “Charlene,” the president said. “I hope you don’t mind my using your first name, but tonight, you put yourself on a first-name basis with the entire world. I would like to invite you to the White House. I want to personally thank you for all you have done. I don’t know if you fully understand this, Charlene, but your singing has awakened angels all over the world. Your one voice has made a difference. Will you come?”

  “I—I would be honored, Mr. President,” Charlene replied. She felt frozen, and all her natural shyness bubbled up inside, rendering her close to speechless at this moment.

  “The honor is mine. My family would love to meet you, too. My wife, Win, is always commenting how much she loves your songs. And my son, Marcus Jr., has a little crush on you, I think. He’s fifteen and at that awkward age, you know.”

  “Oh, I know all about awkward, Mr. President.”

  POTUS laughed. “See, that’s why I want you to visit us. You’re down to earth for such a big celebrity.”

  “Well, I can now say the same of you, sir.”

  POTUS hung up the phone and thought how such beauty could coexist with such sadness in the world. And how one voice singing in the darkness had a way of lighting the way. He hoped that this thought would sustain him as he dealt with the crisis in Turkey.

  CHAPTER

  4

  Johnson Space Center, Houston

  Dr. Jason Chang, a trim, middle-aged Asian-American, had been a space shuttle astronaut in the late 1990s and early 2000s, having logged more than sixty days in space. He had gained fame during one spacewalk when, as he and a fellow NASA astronaut had been repairing the shuttle’s exterior, a freak accident occurred. A piece of space junk severed the other man’s all-important EVA line and he had risked his own life to save his colleague.

  No longer an astronaut, Chang was now one of the premier astrophysicists, not only in NASA but in the entire world. He was the “go to guy” for any anomaly, from errant asteroids to black holes, from star nurseries to black matter.

  Dr. Chang put double cream and double sugar in his coffee as he looked at galaxy cluster Abell 2744, nicknamed Pandora’s Cluster. The presentation pieced together the cluster’s complex and violent history using telescopes in space and on the ground, including the Hubble Space Telescope, the European Southern Observatory’s Very Large Telescope, the Japanese Subaru telescope, and NASA’s Chandra X-ray Observatory. The slides were time sequenced with one second representing twenty-four hours.

  “Whoa,” Chang said. He moved the presentation back by two months, then reviewed it again, this time taking as long as thirty seconds with each frame. After that, he did a quick calculation.

  “Craig,” he said. “What is the redshift of Pandora’s Cluster?”

  Dr. Craig Walcott laughed. “What are you doing, Jason? Testing me? It is z equal to 0.308.”

  “Uh-uh,” Chang said. “Take a look at this.”

  Craig looked at the figures, then at the screen, then at the figures again. “Wait a minute,” he said, “0.512? This can’t be right.”

  “Run them yourself.”

  “No, I wouldn’t question you. I mean you are the—” Dr. Walcott stopped in midsentence and reran the figures. “Damn,” he said. “I don’t understand this. Did we make a mistake with the first calculations?”

  Chang moved to another computer, tapped in a few keys, then brought up the initial photos of Pandora’s Cluster. He ran the figures on that. “Z equals 0.308,” he said.

  “Abell 2744 has not almost doubled its distance from us in twenty years. That’s impossible,” Craig said.

  “What time is it in Moscow?”

  Craig looked up at the array of clocks on the wall. “Sixteen thirty,” he said. “You’re going to call Dr. Kolnikov?”

  “Yes. I have a theory about this, but I want to run it by him first.”

  Chang initiated the call, then after a moment said, “Dmitri?”

  “Jason, my friend, it is good to hear from you. How is young John? Are you still raising him to be a cosmonaut?”

  “Astronaut,” Dr. Chang said. “We raise astronauts in America.”

  “Ah, indeed.”

  “Dmitri, I want you to do me a favor. I want you to take a look at Abell 2744 and give me the redshift.”

  “Z equals 0.308.”

  “Is that your calculation from the latest photos?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Please, just take a look at the latest photos and do a new calculation. I’ll wait.”

  “Very well,” Kolnikov said.

  While he waited, Chang took a swallow of his coffee, then made a face. “It’s grown cold,” he said.

  “I’ll get you another cup,” Craig offered.

  “You know how I like it?”

  “Yes, you like a little coffee with your cream and sugar.”

  As Chang held the phone, Walcott poured a new cup of coffee for him from a pot on a side table, doctored it appropriately, then brought it back. Chang took a swallow before Kolnikov’s voice came back on the phone.

  “This is not possible,” Kolnikov said.

  “What did you come up with?”

  “Z equal to 0.512. But how can this be?”

  “Examine the slides very carefully,” Chang said. “I think there are only two possible solutions. Dark energy is increasing at the rate of expansion beyond anything we have experienced so far, or there is a gathering cloud of dark matter that has suddenly entered our galaxy.”

  “This will require more study,” Kolnikov said. “We will work together on this.”

  “Thank you, my friend,” Chang said as he hung up.

  “Jason,” Dr. Craig Walcott asked with concern in his voice. “If what we have here is an expanding cloud of dark matter, and if it would move into our galaxy, our universe, or impact with Earth, that could be—”

  “A terminal event,” Chang said.

  CHAPTER

  5

  Grenada

  Patricia Rose Greenidge fell into her favorite easy chair in her modest living roo
m with the heaviness of the entire world’s cares pulling her down with the force of iron weights. Known as “Mother Earth” or Mama Greenidge, or simply as “Mama G,” the elderly native of Grenada closed her eyes and tried to block out the visions that had disturbed her of late—more than ever before.

  The nighttime sky above had revealed strange new patterns that she could see with her naked eyes, breaking from the expected movements upon which she and others based their charts—and had done so for thousands of years. It seemed as if she could actually see the planetary bodies moving of their own volition. Never had she experienced such phenomena, and she was at a loss as to how to interpret such signs.

  “As above, so below,” she had often said regarding her knowledge of astrology and the insights that the stars and planets offered to human beings. If only they would observe, watch, and listen to the messages that, she believed, God was sending them in the movements of heavenly bodies. In her latest visions she saw a dark cloud coming to obscure the light of the sun, and knew full well that it was no eclipse. What else could it be? What were the heavens holding for Earth’s future?

  She knew what it meant—even though she tried, pleaded, bargained with God for it to be some misinterpretation on her part. And if this meant what she thought it meant, should she share this? Was she blessed or cursed with this knowledge?

  Mama G was not some quaint old black woman in a bamboo, palm frond, and flattened beer can shack, talking about ancestors’ island juju, reading chicken bones, and casting spells for the native islanders. She was much more sophisticated than that, and had developed a following of millions of souls the world over who listened to her nightly radio and Internet broadcasts and read her blogs and books. She was a media phenomenon whose audience had grown exponentially over the past fifteen years, since near the turn of the millennium, when her astrological readings and teachings had captured the attention of more and more people around the globe.