The Apostates (57 page)

“Doctor! Has the operation been a success?
Were you able to retrieve his neural implant?” Rodrigo leaned toward the
doctor, anticipating the correct response.

“Yes, Inquisitor, the operation was a
success. I was able to get the implant.” The doctor was relieved that he had
not met with any complications during the surgery. The orderlies retrieved the
vegetable that was Zhukov from the table and placed him into a wheelchair. His
head slumped to one side, and a string of drool descended from his mouth.

“Marvelous to hear. How long before I am
able to analyze the implant? The data encrypted within must be accessed
quickly.” Rodrigo stressed his anxiousness.

“Very soon. I just need to isolate it from the surrounding tissue that it was removed from. It takes a few minutes because the implant structure is very delicate,” the doctor informed him. Rodrigo gave him a look of displeasure. The waiting was getting to him. The doctor fidgeted due to discomfort being hunched over looking through the magnification lenses, but also because of nervousness he felt from Rodrigo who watched his every move. Rodrigo paced back and forth in the room, with hands clasped behind his back. He held his lion-head cane in one hand, and twirled it like a baton. He descended upon the doctor quite unexpectedly, right beside his left ear.

“Doctor, I grow impatient and bored. You
really would not like me when I’m bored,” Rodrigo whispered. The doctor jumped; startled by the interruption to his concentration.

“Yes, Inquisitor! Right away, I am nearly finished!” The doctor did not make eye contact and now sweat gleamed on his forehead. The Inquisitor stood upright and watched intently. The metal box sputtered and a slot on the side of the box opened, then, it spat out a sealed, translucent vial, filled with a small quantity of liquid.

“It is done! In the vial, you will find the implant.” The doctor was relieved to have the operation done with. He gestured for Rodrigo to take the vial.

“Very good. I appreciate the fact that I did not have to take more extreme motivational actions. I shall take my leave.” Inquisitor Rodrigo snatched up the vial, tapped his lion-head cane on the table, then, exited the room. The doctor let out a sigh of relief and wiped the sweat from his brow.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

von Manstein was drunk, by the time his A.P.C. had reached the outskirts of Cambridge. The valet announced that they had reached the city, von Manstein stirred, and his head hurt. He looked out the window at the surrounding scenery. The depopulated, old city stood in ruins and the surrounding suburbs lay abandoned. What was left of the population moved into the city center, to live in the old Kendall Square and M.I.T. campus; no longer a college, it was used as housing. Now among its cavernous buildings, families had settled and in its squares, livestock grazed. But, this did not concern Arch-Deacon von Manstein: he only cared about quelling the disorder outside of the old Harvard Stadium. In the distance, he could see smoke rising up. von Manstein theorized the smoke must be from fires set during the riots. He did not know exactly what he would come to find at the scene; he only hoped he had not come too late. He yawned and tried to shake off the buzz that he worked up. Then, quite suddenly, he heard an impact against the side of the A.P.C. Multiple objects had struck the vehicle. von Manstein looked outside. He could see an angry crowd behind a chain-link perimeter fence, and they yelled and threw rocks. von Manstein cursed them for being so disorderly. The A.P.C. moved up a muddy, dirt road to the L.O.V.E.R. command post that oversaw the camp.

There was a mass of people that oushed against the chain-link fence. It wasn’t sturdily-built so it was not long before the fence collapsed. The valet swerved the A.P.C. as to not hit civilians who chased after, cursing and throwing objects. Their feet got stuck in the muddy road, and they slogged on. von Manstein ordered the valet to speed up, so he put his foot to the accelerator. The A.P.C. spun its wheels in the mud and fishtailed in the mucked road. Before the A.P.C. fully found its traction, a lit Molotov cocktail, impacted on the roof of the A.P.C. The flame spread to engulf the sides of the vehicle. At that moment, the A.P.C. found traction and sped up the muddy path. A mob was in pursuit; they were now encouraged on by agitators in the front ranks, who directed the mob toward the L.O.V.E. command post.

Further up the road, another portion of the fence was down and this time a group of rioters blocked the road. With the A.P.C. on fire, von Manstein ordered the valet not to stop for anything. The valet was engaged in a game of “chicken” with the group of rioters that blocked the road. The flaming vehicle sped up. With a few seconds to spare, most of the group jumped one way and the A.P.C. swerved in the opposite direction, except for one woman, who in panic moved the wrong way in the mud. A sickening crunch could be heard against the front fender of the A.P.C. The body was dragged under the flaming vehicle, which finally succumbed to the inferno. The engine failed and the vehicle came to a stop. The valet and the Arch-Deacon quickly spilled out of the burning deathtrap, as they fumbled in the mud, both panicked at the sight of the enraged mob closing on their position.

“Lottie! They killed my Lottie! Kill those
bastards!” a grieving man yelled out from the mob.

“No! No! Talk sense into them!” von
Manstein pushed valet in front of himself and then struggled to his feet, and
ran in the opposite direction up the muddy road. He slipped and fell, and
floundered. The valet faced down the crowd who methodically surrounded him.

“Good, Virtuous, people! That is the Arch-Deacon of the Church of New Megiddo. Surely you do not want to harm—” Without saying another word the mob set upon the valet with knife, brick, pipe and boot. von Manstein lost sight of the valet in the killing frenzy. He struggled to get up on his feet once more. Several men were already upon him brandishing knives.

“Well, priest! This is the beautiful Rapture your Reverend promised! It is here to claim you!” a handlebar-mustached man said to him, raising the knife to strike. Three rounds struck the man: two in the chest and one in the head. The man stumbled, then fell forward on the cowering Arch-Deacon, who soiled his clergy regalia. The rest of the mob recoiled, as two Rangers, clad in ballistic armor advanced, behind riot shields, and armed with automatic rifles. The Rangers fired more bullets into the mob, which dropped more rioters. This forced the smaller group of rioters to flee back toward the main body. The two Rangers linked shields in front of the Arch-Deacon.

“Please get up, sir! We have you!” one Ranger instructed. von Manstein wasted no time to get to his feet, and the three made for the protective perimeter of the command post. Cement barriers called “dragon’s teeth” barred vehicle entry and a wall made from metal mesh baskets filled with rubble, composed a barrier around the post. It was manned by Rangers, which fired warning shots at the advancing mob, who in exchange threw rocks and bottles their way. The two Rangers escorted the Arch-Deacon to the Head Ranger of the camp: a man by the name of Walker. He sat behind a desk, and looked to be engaged in a [Virtue-net] discussion with L.O.V.E. headquarters. When he was finished he cursed out loud, then turned to the Arch-Deacon.

“Arch-Deacon, holiness, I am sorry that
you had to experience all this chaos! I keep trying to get reinforcements from
L.O.V.E. but they have none to spare!” Head Ranger Walker reported.

“No matter! I have seen enough! There is
no salvation for these people. They are not Virtuous—they are Apostates!
Dispose of them,” Arch-Deacon von Manstein commanded. With a wave of his hand
he secured the fate of thousands of people. Head Ranger Walker shrugged, then
via his neural implant ordered his Rangers into action. They emerged from their
defensive positions behind the wall, to form squadrons of three men each. And
with poison gas grenade, automatic rifle, bayonet, and brute force set about
their grim business: pacifying the rioters.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

Inquisitor Rodrigo could barely contain his rage once initial access was granted to the encrypted data. It was all abstract: like a drug-induced vision. The strange scene was played for him on the flex-screen in his office. The Inquisitor seethed with anger, all this effort and carefully-orchestrated interrogation just for this: a junkie’s crazy visions. The Inquisitor got up from his swivel chair and paced back and forth with his cane behind his back. A feeling very close to depression overcame him. His career would end before he would be able to destroy the Apostates. He would be disgraced. But, the point that stung the most: the former Ranger, Evan, would not answer for his disloyalty and tarnishing of the Ranger name. The Inquisitor depressed a small button under the lion-head of his cane. A slim, sword blade screamed out from the small end, which then widened, via a smart, nano-material, and formed into a broad blade. An antique vintage Nishiki bike frame hung from the wall in his office. In a fit of rage, he took swipes with his blade, and with a diamond-like cutting edge, split the steel frame into three pieces.

The Inquisitor felt slightly better after the stunt. He fell back onto a leather sofa and let out a sigh. He reached for a decanter full of whiskey on his end table and poured some into a crystal glass. He picked it up and tilted it back until empty. He refilled and dropped another glass-full down his throat. Rodrigo looked up at the ceiling, with a feeling of exacerbation. Then he gazed at the flex-screen monitor. He watched the nonsensical scenes play out on the monitor, then, it hit him. He thought about how he had been so stupid for not catching it in the first place. The drug-induced visions playing out on the monitor was not the data: it was the encryption method; a non-rational, subliminal type of encryption.

And yet this realization would not help
him at all. The encryption is highly personal to the sender and receiver of the
data. With Zhukov brain-dead, there was no way to tell what significance any of
this had to him. He buried his head in his hands, straining to come up with
something. He stood up in a fit of rage and threw his cane-sword blade
first into the opposite wall of his office, stuck in, the handle vibrated. He cursed, walked around in a circle, then, he faced the screen again.
He gazed upon a particular portion of the vision that played out; it grabbed
his interest.

A shrouded woman, with her eyes concealed, perched atop a tree trunk was displayed. The trunk had deep roots that were visible like an ant farm descended deep into the soil. At the foot of the tree trunk was a crib. Inside the crib lay a toddler on its back, except, its limbs were terribly underdeveloped and shriveled. Upon the shrouded woman’s shoulders sat a dozen homing pigeons. Each had a message attached to their ankles. She held out both of her hands. One pigeon flew from her right hand, and another landed on her left. The shrouded woman retrieved the small message from the pigeon on her left arm, then the pigeon joined the ranks on her shoulders.

“Mother of Spies,” Rodrigo murmured to himself. Kate Schrubb. He wondered what connection she had to Cardinal Zhukov and the Apostates that she had kept hidden. He thought that if she were involved then it would make sense that he had hit so many dead-ends in his investigation and that the Apostates had defeated his Rangers at the Great Lake. This was only possible with high-level, inside assistance, such as the Minister of State Security. She had probably sent him false leads. It occurred to him that maybe Cardinal Zhukov had been innocent after all. He felt no regret for what befell Zhukov because he needed to eliminate variables. Zhukov was just more collateral damage.

Rodrigo deemed it necessary to pay
Kate Schrubb a visit. It may be necessary to interrogate her as well;
to get to the bottom of the Apostate mystery. He felt certain that she held the
key to it all. And, what of Graham Wynham? Rodrigo felt certain that he knew
more than what he let on as well, but Rodrigo did not have the time to deal
with him directly, reports of riots and mutiny pour in from many areas of the
country, and his Rangers were hard-pressed. He would leave further
interrogation of Graham to his junior inquisitors. Rodrigo decided to help
delegate some of the insurrections that threatened to spiral out of control,
then he would pay Kate Schrubb a visit.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

The Mothball fleet had sailed for several days after crossing the Panama Strait. The Caribbean Sea had been very clear during their voyage, with the occasional squall out on the horizon. Despite the calm weather the Apostates and the crew had been tense. The path thus far had been anything but smooth sailing: the battle at the Great Lake, the stowaway assassin, and finally, La Chorrera. No one thought that their mission would danger-free, but no one had imagined it would be so hellish.

Hades-Perdition sat high up near the communications array in the superstructure, and he perched on a service platform. The Caribbean spread out for him: endless expanses of turquoise waters, serene and still. In some areas the Iowa sailed they could see the bottom. Hades spotted schools of fish, and a few minutes later a pod of gray dolphins came aside the ship, jumping out of the water, until they were distracted by fish that would become their prey, then, the pod peeled away, disappearing into the depths. Hades asked himself the age-old question: why was the natural world so free and chaotic, and yet so well balanced, whereas human society was stifling, rigid, and unsustainable? The answer had always been in front of humanity. Set down as a gift at the beginning of time and yet, we never seemed to grasp for it. Contemplated it, yes, but we never attaining it. He felt a moment of self-righteousness wash over him, and he congratulated himself for making that observation, but also understood that it was nothing original. A feeling of pessimism then took hold. What was the point of anything, really? Why was he continuing on with the torturous mission? It was a valid concern. When they were finished thrashing the Church and the Regime, who would fill the power vacuum? Someone worse? Someone benevolent?

Hades tried to rid himself of such
thoughts. He did promise himself that he would not abandon the place known as
New Megiddo. Whatever it became after the Regime was toppled, it would still be
his home. He would stay and help bring justice and stability back to the land:
once known as America. The others had planned to leave as soon as possible, and
he would not stop them. He would not pass up a chance to help mold the new
order.

Hades-Perdition looked out in a north-easterly direction. He squinted a bit in the sunlight, but then he thought he spotted a hint of land way off. It would make sense: the fleet had set a course for Jamaica, for a port call and resupply. The only thing Hades knew of Jamaica was from old, Twentieth Century pop songs, and old tourism brochures. It seemed like a simplistic, narrow view of a country, catering to a long-dead industry. Hades was consoled that at least he would have a brief respite to take in some of the sites and explore a bit. He opened a hailing channel to the rest of the Apostates and the captains.

“Land ho! I think Jamaica is within visual
range,” Hades jested.

“Thanks, Hades. I’ll make preparations to lead the fleet to port. We’ll also try to raise someone on the island for permission to dock,” Gale-Whirlwind explained. She used her neural implant to guide various systems on the ship and harnessed the visual sensors to collect intelligence. As acting captain of the flagship of the fleet, she was also de facto admiral of the mothball fleet. It was a position that she had taken to well.

Gale was possessed by thoughts of what transpired at La Chorrera. It had been an overwhelming feeling of power to be mentally controlling the destructive force of a battleship, but she had also used that power to shell and level an entire town. In that struggle, she had not been thinking of collateral damage and the future of the townspeople. How many had died in her barrage of La Chorrera? She tried to convince herself that there had been no choice. Also, it hadn’t started out as a willful act. At the onset, Gale had no practice with the system that Ravine had installed on the Iowa. The shelling began as a series of misses that landed in the town. As the casualties mounted on her side, so did Gale’s rage. She was hell-bent on destroying La Chorrera’s ability to make war. So, when the fortress had been destroyed she had ordered the town shelled as well. An act she now deeply regretted. She would not publicly admit to that fact, however.

Gale requested a radioman try to raise anyone at the port of Kingston in Jamaica since it had served as the capital in the past. Gale ordered the battleships to draw up in a defensive formation to protect the civilian vessels. She looked for any sign of activity from the visual sensors that fed video into her retinal H.U.D. There was activity in the port, fishing vessels came and went, but it did not seem that anyone was panicked. It looked like this could be a good sign or an indicator of a trap. Gale had the fleet in a holding pattern, as the last thing she wanted was for the Jamaicans to think that the fleet was a hostile force.

Angel-Seraphim also sat on the bridge of the Iowa. She fidgeted with Monsignor Carafa’s spear that she had captured during the fight with the Order at La Chorrera. She could hardly believe that Monsignor Carafa was dead and that the Order might finally be disbanded. She was not naive, however; she had seen too much. It had not been confirmed that all the members of the Order were dead. Angel considered that woman, Friar Francis, to be far more dangerous than Monsignor Carafa ever was. Sure, he was power-mad and a homicidal maniac, but he had a dick; Friar Francis had no such weakness. Ever since Angel had skewered her with a bayonet she was sure that a burning hatred now drove Friar Francis. With her at the helm of the Societatum Pentagram, it would be far more dangerous than previous incarnations.

Angel walked out onto the observation deck conjoined to the bridge. The fresh sea air washed over her. She fidgeted with the spear, and managed to get the spear shaft extended. Angel held it outright in front of her. She found a small touch hole, with a safety. When she disabled the safety and pressed upon the touchhole the end of the spear ignited with a pillar of white, hot plasma. It extended a foot or so from the shaft and burned with the intensity of a star. She wheeled it around to get a sense of the balance and handling of the weapon. It really wasn’t all that different from handling a rifle and bayonet. She twirled it around like a baton but then lost control and the spear flew from her hands. The plasma blade bit into the metal of the bulwark. She quickly ran to retrieve it and pulled it out of the steel. Embarrassed, she turned around to see if anyone on the bridge had noticed her fumble. The bridge crew gave her a standing ovation, facetiously, behind the observation bay glass. Angel recoiled and made herself small while waving back, apologetically.

Angel decided she would take the spear down to the weather deck where she would have a wide-open space to practice in. Angel descended stairs down to the deck and restarted her exploratory training with the newly-acquired spear. It was still sinking into her head that she possessed the spear that she had feared and respected for the time that she was a member of the Order. Now it felt little more than a dangerous child’s toy in her hands. Circumstances had changed so much in the last year for her. Angel practiced thrusting and slashing techniques with the spear. She got a good feel for it very quickly; it was almost like the spear had been tailor-made for Angel.

She placed the butt-end of the spear on
the deck and leaned her weight against it. She got to thinking about Nueva
Grenada and Nicaragua. She feared for her family and her home, even more now
that she realized that Friar Francis could still be out there. Friar Francis
had always harbored a distrust of Angel-Seraphim, these days she was sure if
the Friar was still alive that she would seek revenge against Angel’s home.
Angel resolved that once this fight against the Church and Regime of New
Megiddo was finished, that she would return home, to Nicaragua and defend it
with her life.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

Ravine-Gulch stood alone at the bow of the Hermes. His mood and disposition were grim as usual. He had dwelt on his failure to save Captain O’Leary during the fight at La Chorrara. Also, he regretted not being able to prevail against that woman: the one with the scarified cross on her forehead. Every time he faced her, the woman had killed a talented member of their crew with impunity. Ravine had taken a hand away from the mysterious assassin, but it didn’t seem to have impeded her much. Most likely it just served to enrage her and increased her desire for vengeance. At least he got the sweet scar on his face; it made him look tougher than he actually was.

He wondered where she would rear her ugly, bald head again. He was sure she was not dead. He speculated it would take a direct hit from one of the Iowa’s guns to kill this woman. He had never faced such fury in a person. And yet, what if he had not been suffering the after-effects of ‘Database’? Could he have prevailed in the fight at his peak performance? The possibilities of what could have been plagued him. That was one of his fatal flaws: dwelling on the past. As many times as he strove to improve himself and leave his habits behind, they always managed to creep back in and take prominence. He was also stressed over the thought of taking that last dose of ‘Database’. He desired to get to the end of the visions and discover his fate, but, every time he dropped a dose someone had died as an indirect result. He could not do it while he sailed with the fleet and people might rely upon him.

Ravine contemplated the strategy of his next move. He had felt his existence
one torturous exercise, and if reaching the end of this drama meant his demise
he would welcome it. The one goal that remained for him to accomplish was to
tear down the Church and Regime.

Ravine had received the message that the
fleet had reached Jamaica. He looked off into the distance at the land mass that
appeared to creep ever closer to the fleet. It would definitely do him good to
get off the ships for some shore leave. He was certain that part of the reason he was so miserable was
because he had been sequestered aboard ships for so long, at least that was
part of the problem. Some downtime on solid ground seemed like it would be a
good thing. So, he waited patiently as the bridge crew of the Iowa entered into
negotiations with authorities in Kingston to allow the fleet clearance to come
ashore.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

Blaze-Scorch and her medical staff had worked fervently to save Pale-Silence’s life. He had sustained a nasty wound, which had opened his large intestine and had spilled toxic materials into his body. She had performed a stressful surgery to repair the trauma, in which she had nearly lost him do to his body going into septic shock, then, she had to perform a cleaning procedure to remove the toxins from his core. She had given him an intravenous antibiotic to fight infection and also vasso-pressure medications to restrict blood vessels to help increase blood pressure. Her treatment had worked, saving his life, but he was still in critical condition.

On top of it all, the medical ward was filled with the injured and dying from the battle at La Chorrera. Many of the patients were no longer a priority and were convalescing, but many more kept her days and nights busier than usual. But, so was the life of a combat physician. Blaze stood over the demon man. She laid her hand upon his forehead to get a general idea of his body temperature, and as she felt he was burning up. This was actually a good sign because it meant his body was fighting infection, and healing.

Like all the other members of the Apostates, she too had received the message of the upcoming port call at Kingston, Jamaica. She wondered with the patient load being so heavy if she would even get a chance to leave the ship. Perhaps she could do as much as possible before the ships reached port, and then leave things in the hands of her orderlies. That plan of action could possibly work. She decided upon it and began to double check all the patients throughout the ward to see what she could take care of, preemptively. Once she made her rounds she figured she would go to the weather deck of the Hermes to get some fresh air. Blaze exited the medical ward and ascended a metal stairwell to get topside. When she opened the hatchway sunlight hit her like a brick: it was refreshing. Blaze had almost forgotten what it felt like, having been stuck in the dungeon-like medical ward.

She stretched her arms and looked around, off of the port side she caught a glimpse of the beautiful island. The forest on shore flashed an emerald green from miles away. She could make out cloudy mountain peaks further inland, and the surrounding waters seemed to be a deeper shade of greenish-blue than she had seen elsewhere in the Caribbean. She could hardly wait to leave the ship and walk along the white sand beaches of the island. Being a physician and also the pastiest member of the fleet, with her red hair and northern European blood, she knew the terrible damage the Caribbean sun could inflict upon her delicate skin. She would have to armor herself in the strongest sunblock available.

Blaze walked further along the length of the
Hermes, toward the bow, and had caught sight of Ravine-Gulch at the
tip of the bow. She approached him, and when he heard the footsteps he looked
over his shoulder and nodded to her.

“Well, look who came out of her hole,”
Ravine said in jest.

“Hey, mister sunshine, you’d be
more liable to be down in a hole somewhere than I,” she returned the
barb.

“Yeah, well, much like everyone on these
ships, I sure could use a break,” Ravine confessed.

“You aren’t off the mark, there,” Blaze
confirmed.

“By the way, how is he: Pale-Silence?”
Ravine inquired, leaning on the bulwark.

“He’s fine. I mean, he’s stable anyway.
And don’t go all whiny over Pale-Silence, because that one wasn’t your faul either,”
Blaze preempted his tendency to blame himself for the misfortune of the other
Apostates, no matter how accurate or off his assessment was.

“Yes, I know. Just wondering,” Ravine
agreed with her, even though the thought passed through his mind that if he
hadn’t been bed-ridden he could have been part of the away team, and that might
have changed the circumstances.