Authors: Lars Teeney
Zhukov picked himself up off the floor and
dusted off his trousers. He waited until he felt composed to leave the
conference room. He stepped into a “retro-Gothic”, stone-lined corridor that
rose up and converged in Gothic arches. Except, this corridor was not
constructed of stone, it was metal cast to give the appearance of masonry. It
mimicked the church architecture of the medieval period. The corridor wound off
for a distance and disappeared from his line of sight. Numerous doorways veered
off to either side of the corridor. The structure was the Church of New Megiddo
Central Authority. It was a megalithic structure that rivaled the Tower of the
One in stature.
The Regime, during its early days of absolute power, had given the monuments of national power a massive facelift. The Schrubb administration and the Church removed the emphasis on the secular power of government and emphasized the divine power of the Church over man. Government contractors conjoined the White House to a new structure that symbolized executive authority and connection to the One True God. It was the Tower of the One, a massive single vaulted structure with a lonely Gothic spire that mirrored the style of the Church of New Megiddo’s headquarters. The layout of the National Mall space had been altered so that when viewed from overhead the public space would be configured into a cross, and the four points of the cross would each terminate where a Regime structure stood. The Tower of the One stood where the convergence of the cross bars occurred. The Church of New Megiddo stood at the head of the cross. The headquarters for the Ministry of State Security and the Ministry of Defense stood at the terminus of the right and left arms respectively. The Ministry of Public Education stood at the foot of the cross, M.O.P.E. was the foundation of indoctrination and re-education.
The Church of New Megiddo’s structure, housed most of the Church’s top heavy bureaucracy, leeches living off the teat of congregationally supported extravagance. Apartment blocks and offices spaces honeycombed the structure. There were also sub levels of the Church of the New Megiddo that many senior level officials had not been to. The lowest level was a mystery, no Church official had access to it. The second to the lowest level that many had accessed was the treasury vault, the massive reinforced chamber that had once housed a horde of religious artifacts, gold bullion and art that had been confiscated from branded Apostates over the years. The gold was long gone.
Zhukov, stumbled to his quarters, still
visibly shaken from his encounter with the Reverend. He had activated his
retinal H.U.D. and was pouring over Church archives as he served himself some
wine. Zhukov was looking for any communication between he and von Manstein that
looked suspicious or incriminating. But, everything he read was just run of the
mill Church corruption and practices.
Zhukov was growing desperate. He couldn’t just manufacture evidence, could he? Zhukov had never been the architect of plots, that role fell to von Manstein. He could not match him in a contest of wits. Zhukov was frustrated and in despair. He poured another glass of wine and quickly gulped it down. He finished off the whole carafe in a short time, but it was still not enough. Zhukov clumsily walked to his wine rack and opened a bottle. This time, he did not bother with the carafe. He put the bottle straight to his mouth and chugged. He emptied half the bottle before he had stopped. Zhukov collapsed on his bed. He looked up at the ceiling and then rotated his head to the empty side of the bed. He opened a channel on the [Virtue-net] to his steward and requested a junior member of the priesthood to his chambers. He had the urge to “provide guidance” to the poor soul.
⍟ ⍟ ⍟
Arch-Deacon von Manstein was no fool. One
didn’t rise to his station if the individual lacked wit. He was a shrewd man,
and he had understood that something was afoot when the Reverend had invited
Zhukov to a private conversation. That never happened. The Reverend would
always funnel directives through him, or with him present in the room to
others. von Manstein was feeling exposed and vulnerable. He decided that he
would have to pay extra scrutiny to Zhukov. von Manstein had felt that Zhukov
was a very predictable character because he knew him so well. After all, they
had been like brothers growing up, and he had taught Zhukov everything he had
known about political maneuvering.
von Manstein was looking out of his chamber bay window across the vast stretch of the Divinity Center cross where the Tower of the One sprouted from the ground. Somehow he wasn’t as elated as he should be that everything they had built was going to end. He wondered why he cared so much if Zhukov got preferential treatment from the Reverend over him. He thought that maybe it wasn’t a plot, maybe it was just a private congratulations for Zhukov’s service to the Church? von Manstein quickly dismissed that thought because that was not the Reverend’s style. He usually announced things in a “public” forum, as public as the secretive Church leadership could be. von Manstein noted that even if it was a legitimate plot against him, he doubted that there would be time to pull it off and that there wouldn’t anything to gain from it since little time remained until the return of the Lord. And yet he couldn’t bring himself to surrender to plots. He possessed too much pride and an inflated ego for that. So, he decided that counter-intelligence was the way to respond to this plot. von Manstein would access Zhukov’s correspondence records and monitor his [Virtue-net] traffic. Surely he could get the Ministry of State Security to pull that favor for him?
The Arch-Deacon opened an encrypted channel on the [Virtue-net] that was enabled for high ranking Regime officials. He pinged Kate Schrubb, the Minister of State Security and daughter of the President. After a short time, Kate answered the hail.
“Arch-Deacon von Manstein, on an encrypted
channel? This must be quite the occasion. How do you fair A.D.? She truncated
his title somewhat disrespectfully.
“Greetings Minister Schrubb. I contacted
you on urgent Church, and potentially, Regime business.” Von Manstein was
serious in his tone.
“Well, as the Apostates say, ‘I’m all ears’.” They did actually say that about the spy agency; that it was ‘all ears’.
“Great to hear that you will be receptive
to what I have to say. Minister Schrubb, I believe I have information as to the
identity of the mole that the Apostates have placed within the Regime. But, I
do not have the proof,” von Manstein admitted reluctantly.
“You’re saying that you believe the mole
is an official of the Church of New Megiddo? Do you realize what this means?
The B.A.G. could be under threat! How certain are you? My ministry has
suspicions that the mole was in the M.O.D., my brother’s organization.” Kate
was livid.
“Minister Schrubb, I am fairly certain that the mole is a high-level cardinal that has direct access to the Reverend, himself. The Reverend could be part of this conspiracy.” Von Manstein made it sound as grave as possible.
“Arch-Deacon, that’s impossible for the
Reverend to be—” Kate was interrupted by von Manstein.
“It’s Cardinal Zhukov, I need special surveillance on him. He has been trying to access restricted files, and he is attempting to curry favor from the Reverend. I have a suspicion that he is gathering intelligence for the resistance!” von Manstein insisted while waving his arms even though they were not visible to Kate, expecting the gesture to make a difference.
“Very well, von Manstein, I will authorize
the surveillance, but only because the B.A.G. is near and that we are running
out of leads to find this mole. You’d better hope it leads somewhere. If you
uncover any new information you’d best keep me in the loop.” Kate did not
particularly like von Manstein, but she would tolerate him if it led to the
capture of the mole.
“Kate! Marvelous news! I look forward to
working with you! The Arch-Deacon and the Spy Master working together to
uncover the dastardly mole!” von Manstein was giddy like a child.
“Yes, well, let’s hope it happens soon.
Kate out,” she prematurely cut the communication short.
von Manstein felt like he had just won a small victory, by getting Kate Schrubb on board. Zhukov and the Reverend would not betray him and get away with it. von Manstein now had the Ministry of State Security in his corner and potentially even L.O.V.E. He decided that it was time to celebrate, so he pulled opened up a bottle of wine and poured himself a glass. He walked over to his bay window and sipped on his wine.
“All this will be flaming ruins soon,” he thought. He wanted to feel like a steel-willed man. He wanted to feel no fear of his impending fate and walk bravely into the Afterlife, but he could not shake this weak feeling, the feeling that he would fall to his knees, weeping, and cowering in fear when faced with the flaming wrath of the Lord. von Manstein thought he would drink more to muster up the courage. He would get drunk until his feeling of weakness drained away. Drunk thoughts permeated his skull. He downed another glass of wine, then collapsed on his bed with an urge to “provide guidance” to some piece of meat.
⍟ ⍟ ⍟
Ravine-Gulch had sobered and immersed himself in work for distraction from thoughts of Gale-Whirlwind. He had been ‘pickling’ himself because of how distraught he felt, so he had taken it upon himself to upgrade the electrical systems on the bridge and create an [Apostate-net] interface to certain systems like detection and communications, enabling users to control and give commands to the ship. He thought it better to create with this energy than to destroy himself. Ravine was working on integrating the turret targeting system to the masked [Apostate-net] as his next project. He felt like he was turning over a new leaf.
Ravine had killed himself once before and
drank himself into a stupor and could just as well have been killed by Hades-Perdition,
so Ravine figured this was his third chance at life. He was on a mission to
nearly automate the ship, but time was indeed short. Ravine hunched over with
his hands in the guts of a terminal. He had just finished soldering a circuit
board and bundling a group of wires with a tie, he replaced the metal access
panel and picked himself off the floor. He stood in the middle of the bridge
where the captain would be stationed looking out the observation window.
Ravine thought about the numerous engagements the battleship must have been involved in over the years. He pondered how many crews had cycled through and the people who had lived and died on board throughout its existence. In ages past, the people who had served here had something to believe in and he wondered what that felt like.
“The only thing we have to
believe in with our current plight is that we have to save a world that has
gone to shit from people who want to completely destroy it,” Ravine thought,
cynically, and then he realized that he was slipping into negativity, so he
made himself think of other things.
“I guess that is the reality that everyone
faces—gone is the age of ideologies—replaced by the age of survival. At least
I have some skills I can lend towards our survival; to Gale’s survival.” He
thought if he and Gale couldn’t be together that he’d at least look after her
indirectly.
Ravine, before being ‘born again’, had
been an obsessive technophile. Prior to getting involved with selling ‘Database’
and before he became an addict, he was a self-taught, electrical engineer and
software programmer. He embraced it as a young man—a constant companion that
got him through rough spots. All that changed when he had met Greta. Suddenly
all of his technical knowledge seemed like kids stuff. He had discarded his
passion for the new flame in his life. Ravine had spent so much time alone and
not enough time collecting practice in the art of love, so that when love did
strike him, he had taken an overly-romantic view on relationships, to his
detriment. When his fantasy did not match the reality of the situation he
turned to other pursuits to fill that void that used to be filled by his
techno-tinkering. That new pursuit was ‘Database’.
Ravine sunk down into the command chair
and kicked his feet up onto the tactical situation table. He thought back to
the when he had been ‘born again’—how he had been in a place not of this
world; somewhere ethereal. He had been at peace, then he was violently yanked
back to the world of the living and shackled to his body once more. Ravine
remembered how the mysterious man who went by ‘Sam’ spelled out the terms of
his second chance at life. He would be used as a soldier for one cause and
there was no other choice. He revisited his conversation with
‘Sam’, who singled him out because he had a special destiny. ‘Sam’ had told
Ravine that of all the Apostates, he had a crucial part to play in the
struggle to come. He had had not gone into
detail, only that he would tell Ravine when the time was right.
“Why can’t ‘Sam’ just fucking contact me?
In fact, he made everything sound so urgent and yet all we have been doing is
sitting in these ships, wasting away.” Ravine was growing impatient by these
thoughts.
“Speaking of waiting, it’s been a day now and we haven’t heard a thing from Gale or Hades. What if they ran into hostiles? It is a general security practice to maintain [Virtue-net] silence in the presence of L.O.V.E. forces, because although they wouldn’t be privy to the encrypted message’s content they would be able to detect packets of data traffic which would give away their presence,” he thought. Now Ravine was worrying himself. Ravine suddenly felt the need for action. He decided that he would check the infirmary first to see if Gale had been checked back in for care.
Ravine secured the bridge and stepped through a hatch that led below deck, descended a metal staircase, and progressed down the corridor to the infirmary. He looked around the room, but all beds were empty and hadn’t been used in some time. Ravine stepped into the back room of the infirmary where Lore-Fiction had been treated to remove his injured eye. He was not there.
“That’s weird. There’s no way he has
recovered from surgery yet. He shouldn’t be out of bed,” Ravine thought,
suspiciously.
Ravine left the infirmary to check the rest of the deck level. He peeked into the wardroom and the old officer’s dining area. He walked to the aft-end of the level where a secondary communications array was housed. As Ravine approached he could make out a figure hunched over the equipment. It was Lore-Fiction, still dressed in his patient gown and with gauze wrapped around his head. He obviously had not been cleared to leave the infirmary by Blaze-Scorch.
“Maybe, he’s high on morphine, or has a
fever and wandered out of his room?” Ravine hypothesized.
Lore-Fiction did not hear Ravine’s approach. Ravine spoke, “Lore, what are you doing out of the infirmary? Don’t you want to recover at all, man?” Ravine scolded him slightly and laid a hand on Lore-Fiction’s shoulder. Lore flinched.
“Lore?” Ravine was puzzled.
“It has to happen,” Lore murmured under
his breath.
“What did you say?” Ravine snapped.
“The return of the Lord must come to pass!” Lore rotated his head, seething in fury. He brandished a combat knife that he pulled from under his gown. Holding it blade down he took a swipe at Ravine’s chest. Ravine stepped back as to avoid the blade, but it cut shallow and drew blood.
“Are you out of your mind?”
Ravine shirked at the sting of the cut.
“You don’t get it! I’ve been granted
absolution for my sins. I’m saved. I can’t let you stop the Second Coming!” Lore had a
wild look in his eyes. They stood facing one another for a split second then Lore
lunged at Ravine, taking him by the torso and slamming into the wall.
Lore pinned Ravine to the floor and drew the knife back and stabbed down toward Ravine’s throat, but Ravine deflected the blow with his right arm so that the knife came down and glanced off his shoulder, the tip cut him slightly. Ravine let out a clenched-teeth groan, and with his left arm threw a punch that caught Lore-Fiction in the mouth. A snapping of teeth was heard. Lore wailed—half in pain, half in terror of disfigurement. He staggered backward and spit out a mouth-f of spent teeth.
Lore-Fiction was a large, barrel-chested,
middle-aged man. He was strongly built—but well past his prime. Although
Ravine-Gulch was smaller in stature, but
regularly strength trained, and he was a force to be reckoned with when it came
to grappling forms of combat. The equalizer in this fight was the fact that
Lore was fairly deadly with a knife. Ravine knew this and he weighed his
options on how best to disarm Lore.
“Come on Lore, we can talk about this. It
ain’t too late. Just put that knife down,” Ravine pleaded with him—biding his time.
“No, it’s too late for all you Apostates.
This is the price of absolution!” Lore attacked once more,
making repeated slash attempts against Ravine who kept just out of range. They
squared off. Lore performed feints and looked for an opening of attack.
“Why’d you do it? Why’d you turn on
us?” Ravine attempted to distract him with questions.
“Your material world has nothing for me. Only the realm of the Lord is eternal!” Lore drew a large breath and let out a forceful cry. He charged and swung overhand widely, leaving a line of attack open. Ravine moved inside the blade to make contact with Lore’s body and blocked the knife attack with his right forearm. Ravine grabbed Lore’s wrist, twisted, and disarmed him of the knife. He gained control of the blade.
“Sorry, brother,” Ravine said as he
plunged the combat knife deep into Lore’s remaining eye.
Lore let out a guttural yell, with hands to his face, he flailed around the room for a moment, until he succumbed and fell backward against a wall—his hospital gown drenched in his blood.
Ravine wondered what had come over
Lore-Fiction? Did the Regime or the Church jack his neural implant? Wouldn’t
‘Sam’ have picked up on that. ‘Sam’ had warned them that an informant was among
them. Why would L.O.V.E. attack and try to kill Lore if he
was their informant? It made no sense to Ravine. Maybe it was a case of
mistaken identity and he had to maintain [Virtue-net] silence? He was
transmitting something on the antiquated communications array. Ravine moved
towards the display. It was a green monochrome screen with a cumbersome keyboard that made
loud clicks when depressed. Lore’s message was still on screen.
“Apostates have made preparations—ships
ready for sail. Strike fast,” it read.
“He betrayed us. He kept
[Virtue-net] silence all these months. Who did he sell us out to? Good
riddance, though, the piece of shit was a rapist,” Ravine thought. Whatever the
answer he figured they could expect to be attacked soon. He would need to let
the other Apostates know what transpired. They would need to make preparations
post-haste for departure. Ravine opened a
communication channel through the [Apostate-net] in an attempt to raise
Blaze-Scorch.
“Ravine, how’s it going, darlin’?” Blaze
asked cheerfully.
“Do you know the whereabouts of your
patient, Lore?” He asked calmly.
⍟ ⍟ ⍟
The 1968 black, Dodge Charger flew down old Route Five at speeds in excess of ninety miles an hour. Most of the Route Five was still in good condition, but the pavement around Mount Shasta was particularly chewed and pocked-marked. The car itself screamed Twentieth-century design but the tires it rode on were of a late Twenty-first century make. The surface of the tires was a reactive smart material that could change its configuration based on the road surface. The nano, smart-material could change from an off-road tire to street racing form within a couple of seconds. Receiving a flat tire was virtually impossible with the tires equipped. The Charger had deep black tinted windows. A bold, white cross was painted on the hood.
The driver skillfully traversed any obstacles in the road. She was in quite a hurry as she had closed the gap from the Washington border to Northern California in a little over three hours. These days there was barely any traffic on old Route Five. She would occasionally pass the odd cargo rig or Regime patrol. Normally the Regime patrol would stop anyone speeding like she was, but she had a Church of Megiddo transponder on her vehicle. This let the Regime forces know she was an operative of the Church.
The driver was Prelate Ayane Inoguchi. She had been ordained by the Church of New Megiddo to dispose of the Apostates before L.O.V.E. could because the Reverend had wanted to take no chances of a terrorist attack before the Second Coming. She had never failed a mission in its service and the Church spared no expense keeping her on retainer. Prelate Inoguchi had access to the best pre-war technology available. The Prelate Inoguchi was somewhat of a religious zealot. Her family had descended from the line of Christians that had been persecuted by the Shoguns of medieval Japan. Ever since, the Inoguchi clan had worn this as a mark of pride, and each generation had been raised in a fundamentalist setting. Her family had traveled far and wide for hundreds of years to take up the Christian cause throughout the world. Ayane was determined to uphold this rich, family tradition.
Prelate Inoguchi wore the mark of
fundamentalism on her face. Her head was scarified with sign of a cross, with
the front half of her hair shaved to the skin. The cross started on the top of
her head and occupied her forehead, with the base terminating between her eyes.
The hair on the back half of her head was long and worn in a bun. She was
clad in light-weight ballistic armor with black with white cross markings on the
chest and both shoulders. Inoguchi despised most people, preferring to live a
hermetic life of studying scripture and perfecting the deadly art of
dispatching Apostates.
These long periods of time between missions gave her plenty of time for traiing and contemplation, but the isolation also meant that she could not cope with people in a social capacity. Church officials preferred to correspond with her digitally because she was unpredictable in person. The Church had retrofitted an old pre-war bunker that was located in the city of Portland, Oregon. The bunker, under what was Kelly Butte nature area was built in a dormant volcano and served in centuries past as a fallout shelter, a prison, a quarantine facility, and an emergency services dispatch center. Now it was Inoguchi’s hermitage.
She had been toiling away at her studies
when she received the message from the Church that she had been ordained for a
contract. Inoguchi deeply treasured solitude and religious contemplation, and
nothing enraged her more than being interrupted and forced to interact with the
world. This instilled a burning fury inside her that she harnessed to make
herself more brutally effective in her missions. Inoguchi had been following
the Reverend’s messages about the Second Coming, to occur at that year’s B.A.G.
To Inoguchi this was the truth and so she knew that this would be her last
mission on Earth, therefore she would hold nothing back. It would be a suicide mission.
The Charger tore over a bridge that
spanned the dried out remains of Shasta Lake, now just a barren depression in
the landscape. She had poured over scenarios in her head. Inoguchi activated her retinal H.U.D. and queried old, pre-war aerial
photographs of the California Great Lake and the surrounding area. She narrowed
the image field to around the Mothball Fleet and examined the approaches. She
also studied the Church files on L.O.V.E. and its Rangers, their equipment,
tactics and command structure. Inoguchi always did her homework.