 
# **Contents**

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

PROLOGUE

IRON SHARPENS IRON

ALL IS VANITY

A QUIVER FULL OF ARROWS

STILL IN THE DARK

LET THE CHILDREN ALONE

DOCTRINES OF DEVILS

THE LABORER DESERVES HIS WAGES

FOOLS DESPISE WISDOM

ENTER THROUGH THE NARROW GATE

BEHOLD A PALE HORSE

A SONG OF ASCENTS

WHO WILL TREAD DOWN OUR FOES

EPILOGUE

Like What You Read

**New Megiddo Rising **

**An "Apostates" Novella**

**By Lars Teeney**

**Edited by Stephanie Buck**

Copyright © 2016 Lars Teeney and Xcism Press

_All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Some characters in this book are based on historical figures. Most characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental._

ASIN: B01GHJVRL8

ISBN: 1533645531

ISBN-13: 978-1533645531

_To independent authors_

_Who keep the struggle alive_

_PROLOGUE_

Jose Viesca, Governor of the state of _Coahuila y Tejas_ had been riding north for over a week now. Viesca's retinue was composed of thirty infantrymen, twenty lancers, and two cannons. A number of camp followers and servants trailed the column. The way had been muddy and plagued by unseasonal rain in northern _Coahuila_. Despite the difficulties, Viesca believed this trip to be of the utmost importance to Mexico. He pulled a golden spyglass from the saddlebag hanging off his stallion. He protracted the device and peered through the dirty lenses. On the horizon, he spied a ramshackle palisade of timber stakes and a white structure with a cross atop its spire. Viesca's column had made it to New Megiddo, Texas.

" _Jinetes, vamos a hablar con los gringos,_ (Riders, let's talk to the gringos.)" Governor Viesca called out to his escort of four horsemen to ride ahead.

Governor Viesca hoped that there would be no altercation this day. He had sent advanced notice of his intent to visit and the residents of New Megiddo were tenants of Mexico, after all. Viesca watched intently as his riders were received at the gatehouse. A representative of New Megiddo rode back out with them to the column to parley with him.

" _Saludos, Gobernador, Yo soy el capitán de la guardia. ¿Quieres entrar en Nueva Meguido?_ (Greetings, Governor, I am the captain of the guard. Do you want to enter New Megiddo?)" asked the Captain of the New Megiddo Militia who accompanied the Governor's riders.

" _Sí. Yo estoy aquí para cumplir con Brigham Wainwright_ , (Yes. I'm here to meet Brigham Wainwright.)" the Governor responded firmly.

" _Muy bien, señor. Por favor sígame_ , (Very good, sir. Please follow me.)" the Captain bade the Governor and his retinue forward. Viesca rode with several of his aides through the gate of New Megiddo. When Governor Viesca looked around he took in the sight of craftsmen crisscrossing the courtyard, a blacksmith pounding hot iron on an anvil, and militiamen drilling. Many families were camped in the open with flimsy tents and cook fires smoking. Dirty children played in the mud and women in stained dresses struggled to stitch clothing and grind millet. The men wore wild beards and raccoon fur hats. One man looked up at the Governor with wild eyes and spat a load of spent tobacco into the dirt. Another man sharpened a large knife on a whetstone. Governor Viesca assumed that these families were part of the fresh wave of immigrants pouring into _Tejas_ that his scouts had reported.

The men reached the central structure of the settlement; a monolithic, fortified church. The men dismounted their horses and hitched them up to posts in front of the white adobe building.

" _Reverendo Wainwright es a través de estas puertas. Él te está esperando_." (Reverend Wainwright is right through these doors. He is expecting you.) The Captain waved the Governor and his entourage on through the doors. Inside the Governor was given pause by what he saw. The roughly hewn, wooden pews had been pushed to one side of the sanctuary presenting an open space. What seemed to be a classroom's worth of children, from toddler to teenager, sat on the planks of the floor singing. Governor Viesca cringed slightly at the shrill cacophony of children's voices. Off to the side of the pulpit was a man perched at a Schaffer piano, belting out a tune. Eight women flanked the piano sang along with the children, providing falsetto support. The man was dressed in a tailored, black coat with the tails hanging down from the piano bench. A black top hat rested on the beside him on the bench. He wore gray trousers and immaculate, shined dress shoes. He was in mid-verse when one of his militia men interrupted him, whispering into the man's ear. He turned to look and smiled, muttonchops swaying in the air. The singing voices trailed off.

"Governor Viesca! How delightful for you to grace us with your presence! I trust the Lord watched over you on your journey?" Reverend Brigham Wainwright exclaimed, clearly displaying his oratory skills learned from an aristocratic upbringing that hinged upon courtesy and pronunciation.

"Reverend Wainwright, so glad we could meet once again. Are you teaching all these children? Village children?" the Governor asked with some curiosity.

"Louisa, Venassa, Frencesca, Anahita, Lorraine, Caroline, Brunhild, and Theresa! Please escort the children out of the sanctuary. I have official business to attend to. The lot of you make me so happy, every time I recite your names!" Reverend Brigham stood up from the bench, straightened his lapels, and placed his top hat upon his head. He strutted slowly through the sanctuary toward the Governor and his entourage.

"Oh, those whipper-snappers? Heavens no, I am just doing my part as loving father to keep them occupied," he exclaimed.

"They are all yours? All thirty?" The Governor asked with a raised eyebrow.

"As much as I would like to profess my virility as a man, I would be lying as there are only twenty-seven in my brood. My eight wives keep me well stocked with heirs," the Reverend confessed. The Governor gazed upon the many-hued faces of the children. Governor Viesca surmised that the Reverend had engaged in a "tasting tour" of the varieties of women the region had on offer.

"Impressive. Well, as much as I would love to discuss your family life further, my men and I have made a long journey and would appreciate provisions and accommodations," the Governor requested.

"Why, by all means! Captain, see to the men. Governor, please come back this evening and we shall dine together." Reverend Wainwright said.

Governor Viesca followed the Captain out of the Sanctuary through a back door. He and his men were brought through a series of ornately furnished rooms, with pieces from the top European designers, that featured curving profiles. Viesca couldn't help being slightly jealous of the Reverend's collection. The Mexican delegation was led out a door onto a porch that Governor Viesca could see was the rear of the fortified church and living quarters for the Reverend and his family. Finally, they reached the guest barracks where the Governor and his men settled in.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

After Governor Viesca and his aides had settled in, washed up, and recuperated from their trek, they made their way back to the fortified church. They were led into Reverend Wainwright's living quarters that were conjoined to the church in the rear. The men were escorted to a fully-stocked, stately dining room. A large, silver candelabra stood at the center of a long rectangular table. The Reverend was seated at the head of the table with his wives occupying one side. The courses had been laid out previously by the house staff featuring a pig, roasted to perfection. The Governor was overwhelmed by the assortment of aromas that invaded his nose, from charred meats to pungent cheeses. An assortment of sliced fruit, bread, and cheeses were spread out across the table. The only drink on offer besides water was apple cider as it was crucial due to lack of potable water. The Governor's officers took their seats as the Reverend walked into the room, dressed in his finest suit.

"Governor—gentlemen, let us give thanks to the Lord for this bounty! Father, we thank you for watching over Governor Viesca on his long trek. Lord, thank you for allowing us to gather with our Mexican brethren to discuss a bright future together. Father, I would ask you to guide the Governor in our discussions so that he might see the beauty in your designs..." The Reverend continued to lead them in a long-winded prayer to God. Governor Viesca cleared his throat and shifted in his seat hoping to communicate his displeasure and boredom. When the prayer was done, the hungry Mexican delegation immediately scooped up massive portions onto their plates, not bothering to wait for the serving staff. A collective gasp was loosed from the servants, but the Reverend looked on silently.

"Reverend, is it true that the Lord spoke to you and led you to this place?" Governor Viesca asked.

"Why, yes it is! I ran a prosperous plantation in my native Virginia—cotton. I was well stocked with slaves and could have anything I ever wanted, but I felt a profound emptiness in my life. Not long after this realization, I took to the bottle and gambling. One night when I was at my lowest, the Lord appeared to me and told me to give up my old life, gather followers, and come to this place. New Megiddo was to be the promised land for my flock!" the Reverend fondly recounted.

"I am glad that you have brought your congregation to our state and that you remain a loyal subject to the Mexican government. Your influence and leadership are valuable to us all. That is what brings me here. As you know, your countrymen come pouring, illegally, over the border into _Tejas_! We welcome a limited amount, through the correct avenues, but now the trickle becomes a torrent!" the Governor complained.

"I hear you, Governor. _Tejas_ is an inviting land," the Reverend said.

"I implore you. Use your influence in the American Capital to stem the tide of these immigrants," the Governor pleaded rapidly with a furrowed brow.

"Of course, Governor! I will do my utmost to discourage Americans who would come here illegally. I will write letters to my friends in Washington," the Reverend placated him.

"Bueno! Because as you know I have already stationed troops along the border. If it gets worse, I will be forced to garrison the _Gringo_ settlements. We all want to live peacefully together but how can this be when American immigrants outnumber the citizens by two to one?" the Governor asked, taking a swig of cider.

"Believe me, Governor, if foreigners were invading my country I would do all it took to keep them out! I appreciate the Mexican government's hospitality to me and my people. You have my pledge that I will talk to the someone in the American government, perhaps Speaker Stevenson, about sending their rabble to settle elsewhere. Now that the matter is settled, how 'bout we get down to feasting and merriment?" The Reverend was quick to shut the discussion down. "I have a special treat for you! Ladies!" His wives came marching into the dining hall in a neat line and began to sing "Nearer, My God, to Thee",

"Nearer, my God, to Thee, nearer to Thee!

E'en though it be a cross that raiseth me;

Still all my song shall be nearer, my God, to Thee,"

Governor Viesca struggled to hide his irritation by forcing an diplomatic smile upon his face. His aides sat silently and reached for more apple cider while the torturous singing lasted into the wee hours of the night.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

The next day, the Governor's column packed, mounted up, and passed through the gates of New Megiddo. They were beginning their southern trek back to _Saltillo,_ the capital of _Coahuila y Tejas_. Reverend Wainwright stood at the gate waving with his Captain of the militia at his side and watched them ride on.

"You didn't really mean to talk to the American government into stopping settlers from comin', did ya?" the Captain asked nervously.

"Captain, you know me. Of course not, but one in a leadership position must possess the quality of subtlety. We of Anglo-Saxon stock do not yet have the strength to openly rebel against the Mexican government. Make no mistake, I plan to flood this God-given land with my flock. It is our divine right to rule here," the Reverend said with a face of iron. The Captain smiled when he heard this and the Reverend placed a hand on his shoulder. They watched as the Governor's column traveled over the horizon. the Reverend and his Captain entered New Megiddo and latched the massive wooden gate shut behind them.

_IRON SHARPENS IRON_

The utilitarian room felt uninviting and frigid. Two sets of bunk beds lined the walls; equipped with drab sheets that looked to have been used for years, due to the holes and stains in them. The thought of using the revolting bedding made her cringe with discomfort. The look from two little girls languishing on the bunk was one of disdainful curiosity. She felt the tension increase in the room.

She was urged forward by a Warden of the blockhouse further into the cell-like room. She took small, reluctant steps. She gazed up at the bunk on the opposite wall. Inquiring, yet threatening, eyes traced her movements.

"This is your new home, Ayane. The Lord has blessed you with a roof over your head and food to eat. Girls, please welcome Ayane Inoguchi. Please, be courteous to one another. Now, go ahead, get settled in!" The Warden urged Ayane toward an empty bunk. Ayane felt anxiety overtake her and she wanted to cry, but she suppressed those feelings. Even at twelve years old she recognized the need to not show vulnerability in her current plight. The girls leered at Ayane like wolves searching for signs of weakness in prey. The attention made Ayane want to cover herself with her long, jet-black hair and disappear The Warden turned with haste and exited the room. As the door was shut and locked behind her Ayane could feel her previous life being archived for posterity within her synapses.

"Hey you! What's your name?" A girl with a face that had been sandblasted with freckles snarled.

"Ayane," she conceded meekly.

"Ayane? What kind of name is that?"

"It is a Japanese name meaning 'colorful sound'," she stated matter-of-factly, trying not to let her nervousness show.

"Japanese?" the freckled girl said spitefully. "You're one of those people we defeated in the Holy War and you have a stupid name." The other, darker-skinned girl sat on her bunk, chuckling.

"First of all, that would be the Chinese—" Before Ayane could finish her words every child was pinged via their neural implants Even though Ayane had experienced echo of others' voices in her head before, she had never had her mind invaded in such an inpersonal manner.

"Attention, Virtuous Children of the Twin Peaks Island Home of Virtue, Education, and Love. Please prepare to assemble in the Sanctuary. We have a special guest from the Church of New Megiddo Central Authority that has come to deliver a message to us. Wardens are to escort their wards post-haste," the announcement stated dryly. The predatory little girls turned from Ayane to get themselves presentable for the assembly, pulling uniforms from a dank armoire. Ayane was chilled with fear, but a part of her wanted the confrontation with the girls; some deep, buried urge to render flesh from bone.

The Warden unlocked the door and rushed back into the room to hasten the children toward the Sanctuary, so Ayane turned her attention vast number of children being herded through the halls by Wardens toward the center of the H.O.V.E.L. to this mystery speaker. The horde of children and Wardens entered the Sanctuary, the cavernous chamber accommodated what looked to be hundreds of wooden pews, and the high ceilings were decorated with colorful murals depicting scenes from the Old Testament. At the front of the room was a raised platform with a marble pulpit standing prominently.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

A man clad in a white country-western suit with a matching white cowboy hat and rattle snake-skin boots was rendered on the retinal head-up display of each child and Warden in attendance. The man spoke with a red face.

"Blessings upon ya'll, Virtuous Children of the Lord. Of course ya'll know me well, I'm your Reverend Wilhelm Wainwright. I have called ya'll here for a special announcement. I am pleased to tell ya'll that this grand H.O.V.E.L. that you call home is now under the jurisdiction of a new Father - Father Rupert von Manstein! Father, please come out and introduce yourself!" The Spiritual Leader of the Church of New Megiddo then terminated the communication. Most children cheered, but Ayane sat silently. A middle-aged man in full regalia of a black and white tunic with a raised collar that terminated in a point behind his head. On top of his head was adorned a cylindrically-shaped cap with a flat top, blazoned with a band of black crosses. The middle-aged man climbed the pulpit of the Sanctuary, which was the grandest room in the entire H.O.V.E.L. Massive, golden organ pipes climbed the walls to converge on the vaulted arch ceiling; spewing forth the music of Heaven. There was no speakers or choir in the Sanctuary; the music was fed directly to the minds of the attendees.

"My, my—It is a privilege to see all of your shining faces. Every child residing in this H.O.V.E.L. is the future of New Megiddo. As your new Father, I promise to guide and protect this district so that everyone can continue Holy studies without fear of interruption from tainting influence." Father von Manstein gazed over his captive audience with deep set, beady eyes, and a beak nose. His pride at that moment was full like a bovine mammary.

"I just want to assure you all that in many ways it shall be business as usual around here. However, there will be a few changes under my watch. The changes will be reflected in the classroom. I want all the Virtuous Children here to strive for excellence in the study of Scripture. Your instructors shall go into more detail. Well, I am so glad to meet such a Virtuous student body. Now then, I won't keep you waiting. Off to your studies!" von Manstein shooed the children away with a dismissive hand. The Wardens gathered their lots and began to usher them out of the Sanctuary. Ayane sat still and silent as the rest of the children shuffled by her. The freckled bully made an extra effort to make eye contact as she passed Ayane. Ayane stared straight ahead.

"Father, I assure you that we maintain the most stringent standards when it comes to producing Virtuous citizens for New Megiddo—but—the overwhelming flow of Apostate children that are placed with us—they are very defiant. It is very difficult to change their nature." A slender woman with curly, reddish hair, and a slightly pointed nose walked with Father von Manstein, down the central aisle. Ayane could hear their conversation due to the acoustics of the Sanctuary.

"I appreciate your candor, Chief Warden Greenbaum. It is the Church's stance that infidels have too many inroads into undermining the values of our society. I have been handed a mandate to make sure that these children not only are integrated into our society seamlessly but that they also embrace our doctrine wholeheartedly. Look at the difference the H.O.V.E.L of Ukiah has made in your own home town's outlook—" Father von Manstein paused. His eyes descended upon Ayane like a cloud. She felt his gaze upon her but still locked her eyes straight ahead.

"Father?" Chief Warden Greenbaum attempted to regain his attention, but Father von Manstein drew closer to Ayane.

"Tell me, Chief Warden, what is this one's name?" von Manstein's interest was piqued.

"Oh, that is the new one. The name is Inoguchi or something," Chief Warden Greenbaum said with indifference.

"The Inoguchi's? I see." Father von Manstein approached Ayane, who still sat stiffly.

"Hello, child. You seem tense. You shouldn't be. This is a place of God. What is your name?" von Manstein asked, hovering. His hook nose looming over her.

"A-Ayane," she struggled with her answer. The aura of this strange man made her feel defensive. His alien garb made him resemble a ruffled-up, predatory bird. His beady eyes were hungry. von Manstein knelt beside Ayane.

"Ayane! Lovely name. Listen, Ayane, you are under the protection of God. Have any of the other children given you any problems?" von Manstein queried.

"Well—I—no." She stopped herself from divulging information that could make her a target. von Manstein chuckled and put a hand on her shoulder. Ayane cringed internally.

"It's okay child. Did you know I grew up in a H.O.V.E.L. just like this?" von Manstein offered. She glanced at him for a moment, pondering what he said.

"You did?" she asked.

"Oh yes. The H.O.V.E.L. I grew up in raised me from a barbarous heathen to my station today. These homes are the great equalizer that allow Apostates to become Virtuous," he said with a smirk.

"They do?" A thousand thoughts streamed through her head. Was Father von Manstein truthful with her? Did she have nothing to fear from this strange place? But that was all she asked.

"Most definitely. Ayane, allow me to provide you with some guidance. I will set you on the path to greatness." Ayane did not understand his meaning.

"Warden, Ayane is to visit me in my private quarters. Please make all the necessary arrangements," von Manstein instructed.

The Chief Warden stood silent for a moment, then spoke, "Yes, holiness."

"Oh and make sure she is dressed in her Sunday-best."

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

"You truly have been blessed, girl. To have been chosen by a Father of the Church for guidance is an honor. The children of the H.O.V.E.L. will surely be jealous. I wouldn't go around rubbing it in now," the Chief Warden offered the warning. Ayane walked alongside her, saying nothing. She was dressed in a white, billowing blouse with a red scarf tie, fastened around her neck. A plaid, pleated skirt adorned her lower half. Her hair was made up in pig-tails. The Chief Warden herself had a hand in preparing Ayane for her visit.

"I've heard that Father von Manstein is very particular. He doesn't just take anyone under his wing. Although I think your family name helps," the Chief Warden confessed. Ayane did not understand what she had implied.

"Well, here we are." The Chief Warden pinged Father von Manstein via his neural implant to inform him of their arrival. Ayane looked up at the steel reinforced, gothic-arched, double-door that loomed over her. She felt small compared to them. The doors opened on their own.

"Ayane! Do come in. Thank you, Warden, you did a wonderful job preparing Ayane!" Father von Manstein was glowing. He was dressed in casual clergy wear, a buttoned-up shirt and loose fitting trousers.

"Excellent, holiness. Please call if you require anything." With that, Chief Warden Greenbaum took her leave.

"Come, come, Ayane. Have a seat. Would you like something to drink? Orange Juice? Water?" von Manstein offered. Ayane craved orange juice. Good orange juice was a rare commodity even for the ruling class.

"Orange juice, please," she requested, taking a seat on a plush, velvet chair. von Manstein handed a crystal goblet filled with the precious liquid to Ayane. She took a sip and swished it in her mouth, savoring.

"Now then, do you know why you are here in this H.O.V.E.L., Ayane? I mean, aside from being favored by the Lord," von Manstein pulled up another chair close to Ayane while he spoke.

"Uh—" She shook her head indicating ignorance.

"Child, it must be quite a shock to have been plucked out of your privileged world and plunged into this environment. I know. However, this is what your parents wanted for you," von Manstein assured her.

"My parents?" Ayane was confused. She remembered that her parents had always been gone for months at a time during her formative years, having been raised largely by house staff. Then one day agents of the Church of New Megiddo Central Authority came to take her away.

"Yes, your parents. The Inoguchis Goro and Emi  they were special. I bet you barely knew them, but they were holding the line against the taint of Apostasy," he said, eyes widened.

"I—," was all she said.

"I know it is quite a bit to take in. Your parents were top agents in Law of Virtue Enforcement; they were undercover Rangers. The best in the agency. They were sent to infiltrate an Apostate separatist settlement in California. They had been among its number for well over a year. Long story short, before the operation to raid the settlement commenced, they were compromised and tragically killed in the service to their Faith." von Manstein removed his cap in a sign of respect to the dead revealing thinning, hair peppered with gray

"I—I did not know this," Ayane began to whimper.

"Oh, child! This is a boon to you; blessed you are," he said. Moving in closer, he laid a hand on her back.

"Your parents wanted you to follow in their footsteps in service to the Faith. No bloodline is better suited for this role. For five hundred years, your family were dreaded assassins for Shogunates of Japan and beyond. You descend from a line of holy warriors." von Manstein reveled in telling the tale.

"But I don't know anything about fighting," Ayane confessed meekly.

"You will. I am going to make sure of it. My mission is to provide you with guidance. It requires a very close relationship between us," he said, looking into her eyes.

"But—I," she began to say.

"This all must be so overwhelming for you," he interrupted her, "Let us get to know one another," he whispered. He lightly touched her red scarf tie. Breathing heavily he said, "Let us loosen this and make sure you are more comfortable."

_ALL IS VANITY_

The dental drill made short work of his teeth; little-by-little, each was filed down to a sharp point. After this task was completed, the surgeon affixed molten titanium casings to each front tooth ensuring the menacing serrations would be preserved. The surgeon prepared a solution contained in several syringes. He applied the subcutaneous injections to the patient. The solution, which would result in the bleaching of the skin, was no ordinary bleaching agent. Synthetic proteins, in essence, nano-robots, would change the color of the tissue at a cellular level. The resulting hue was of an ashen-gray color. The spectacle of the transformation resembled chromatophore camouflage like an octopus until a uniform gray was reached.

The surgeon then turned his attention to the patient's eyes. This was the most delicate part of the operation because it carried the highest risk of the body rejecting artificial implants. The surgeon went to work with the assistance of Medical Utility Drones (M.U.D.s), to methodically remove the eyes and optical nerves of the patient. The slender arms of the drones slipped behind the eyeballs, and then bits mounted at the end of the arms detached the nerves. The synthetic tissue implants were readied for installation. The disembodied, beastly irises stared onward at nothing in particular. Delicate mechanized arms lowered the implants into the patient's vacant eye sockets. A fusion of synthetic and organic tissue was taking place linking synthetic optical nerves to the visual cortex of the brain. Almost immediately rapid eye movements occurred confirming to the surgeon that the link between the brain and implants was a success.

After the very tense and delicate operation, the surgeon let out a sigh of relief. He instructed the M.U.D.s to apply a healing mask to the patient's head. The healing mask was a sealed, alloy mask that would aid in the healing process via nano-drones, which would clean incisions and fight infection. The surgeon pulled away his mask and exited the small operating room to an adjacent office leaving the patient to recover. He poured himself a glass of fine bourbon. Being a black market cartel physician did have its benefits. The proceeds from this operation could keep him afloat for the rest of the year. He savored each sip of the caramel-colored liqueur; it was the flavor of success.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

The patient finally stirred. He sat upright on the gurney, the weight of the helmet-like healing mask, causing him to strain slightly.

"Doctor, what is this infernal contraption you have encased my head in?"

"Why, it's a Healing Automation Technology drone. A H.A.T. for short. It will speed up the healing process and will make sure your body does not reject your visual implants," the surgeon informed him. The patient looked around the room, trying to get used to viewing things through the H.A.T.

"For how long will I have to where this most inconvenient device?" the patient asked.

"Until I am satisfied that you are healed properly, Prescott," the surgeon insisted.

"I see. It cannot interfere with my work as a Prelate of the Church of New Megiddo. There are quite hefty sums of capital at stake," Prescott quipped.

"Believe me, I would not want to do anything to jeopardize your revenue stream, as it trickles down to me, but you will need to stay out of action for a few days. You will get used to the H.A.T. in time. Just keep me updated on your status," the black market surgeon ordered.

"Fine, fine. I have authorized the transfer of one million New Megiddo Tithings to your account, for services rendered. Another five hundred thousand once I am mended and I am satisfied that I am indeed putting the dread of Hell into my target. It will be what sets me apart from my counterpart Prelates," Prescott said matter-of-factly.

"I get it, you need to build your brand, as they used to say," the surgeon added sarcastically.

"Much obliged, doctor. I shall take my leave now. I'll be in touch." Prescott got up off the gurney dressed in a medical gown. Still wobbly, he took extra care to steady himself. The chrome-domed Prelate climbed the stairwell out of the black market infirmary and into the daylight of the slums of Los Angeles. He marveled at the site of the vast spread of shanties stretching up over the Hollywood Hills. The scenery looked surreal to him through the augmented visual implants. He could focus in on each structure with eagle-like eyes. Prescott was very impressed and did not miss his old vision which had grown fuzzy with age.

"Ah, yes. What a sound investment, indeed," he said to himself as he made his way toward the downtown sky-towers.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

Prescott had always preferred the remote settlements of the coast north of L.A. to the vast sprawl of the slums or the glitz of downtown. He did make enough as a Prelate of the Church, disposing of the Faith's enemies, to afford a penthouse in a sky-tower, but it felt disingenuous to him. The nature of his work did not match the sterile, minimalist-chic of the affluent. Prescott was a creature of the dingy and the dark. He was also pragmatic; he was no religious zealot like the other Prelates. Prescott had discovered what he had talent for and then he figured out how to make a comfortable living at it and if he had pretend to be Virtuous, so be it.

Prescott strolled along the clean sidewalks under the shadow of the sky towers. Though each passerby shot him a perturbed glance at the sight of the strange helmet affixed to his head, he nodded to each politely. They made a wide arc around his path mainly because he carried twin tomahawks hanging from a utility belt over his ballistic, fitted armor. People in this part of town knew the mark of an Ordained Prelate when they saw one. The traffic was thick with rickshaws, motorbikes and for those who could afford them, armored, solar-powered cars. The heat from the southern California sun beat down upon the vast expanse of Los Angeles and the paved surfaces of the city conducted heat that added to sweltering temperatures. Adding to the misery was hazy smoke from a nearby wildfire that had been burning out of control for some time.

After some time, Prescott reached his destination - the Church of New Megiddo Deaconess Building. Of all the surrounding architecture, the most ornate and archaic looking was the Deaconess Building. The alloy used for the exterior was shaped and textured to mimic ashen stone of a medieval style. Prescott thought that "Horror Vacui" or "fear of empty spaces" could be a term used to describe the facade of the building with its cramped ornamentation in the stone edifice. He approached the heavy, wooden double doors and sent a message via his neural implant to Church officials within that he had arrived. After a few moments, the wooden, double doors opened of their own accord. Prescott walked in. A pair of Law of Virtue Enforcement Rangers met him and escorted him through a dimly lit corridor. The L.E.D. lighting was set in fixtures of resembling torches spaced with regularity along the walls. The Rangers led him into a spacious chamber, similar to a throne room, decorated with spartan, stone benches. At the far end of the room sat an obese man dressed in black and white regalia, emblazoned with black crosses, and composed of loose-fitting fabric. He was perched upon a stiff, roughly hewn, wooden throne. The seal of the Church was hung above him.

"Ah, Prescott. Please come closer—" The Deacon was taken aback by the strange helmet encasing Prescott's head, "What is that helmet you wear?" He struggled to sit upright as he spoke.

"Deacon Robertson, I apologize. I was wounded in combat and required reconstructive surgery. This helmet helps in the healing process," Prescott said, bowing slightly.

"If you say so. All I care about is that it doesn't impede you from your tasks. Are you ready for a contract?" Deacon Robertson spouted through a chubby, red face. Prescott thought that the man loved his drink and red meat too passionately.

"By all means, Deacon. That is the reason I stand before you," Prescott stated impatiently, his voice muffled by the H.A.T.

"Perfect. Then by power vested in me by God Almighty, I hereby ordain you, Prescott Zimmerman Junior, under contract with the Church of New Megiddo, to hunt down and bring to the Lord's Justice the souls of the wicked Apostates and those who would seek to do our Faith harm," the fat Deacon recited with some haste. Prescott had heard him say the words a thousand times before.

"Very good. So, who is my target?" Prescott asked.

"Your target will be a leading agitator of the Apostate class somewhere in the slums of Los Angeles," was all Deacon Robertson said. Prescott stood silent for a moment waiting for more information, attempting to suppress the urge to itch his face, knowing it would be futile.

"Am I correct to assume that you have additional information on my target?" he asked.

"Correct. Your target is known in certain circles as the 'Slum Sage'," Deacon Robertson recalled.

"That's it?", Prescott pressed.

"Come again?" The Deacon asked in disbelief.

"Surely, you must have more than just this tidbit of information?" Prescott spoke with some degree of snark.

"Listen, Prelate, that is your job. You do whatever it takes to get paid. The Church deals with matters of faith; you deal with our enemies. Now, I suggest getting to it," Deacon Robertson said waving a dismissive hand. It seemed to Prescott that the Deacon wanted to go back to napping.

"Very well, Deacon, I will carry out the contract," Prescott said, again bowing his helmet, then he turned and exited the building. Walking down the street, he turned his thoughts to his target, the "Slum Sage". He thought that this moniker did not sound like that of a fighter. It seemed to Prescott that his target was more likely to be a cult leader and intellectual of some sort. He felt conflicted about his contract, because the targets seemed fairly harmless, but the bounty was considerable, so it troubled Prescott less to think of the reward.

_A QUIVER FULL OF ARROWS_

Kate Schrubb held her newborn carefully in her arms. Her blonde locks rested gently on the baby's bare head. She watched him sleep through the scrolling words overlaid on her retinal H.U.D. As she read the copy from the genetic diagnosis report, she cried quietly. The report informed her that her son had been born with Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis. It told her that her son would have a few years of normal development before the disease would manifest symptoms. She finished reading the report and then willed the text window closed within her retinal H.U.D., and sat in the hospital bed staring down at her child. The Reverend Wilhelm Wainwright had appeared to the child through his recently installed neural implant and he blessed the child of the First Daughter. She considered the irony of her situation; what should have been a joyous occasion was tainted by this news. She turned to morbid thoughts of her baby suffering with the horrible degenerative disease as he grew older before an even darker thought flashed through her mind. She could take her child's life - a mercy killing She could get away with it, too, for she was the President's daughter. She returned to her senses and resigned herself to the reality she faced.

Kate carefully cradled her son in her arms. The labor had been painful and her son was big for a newborn. She endured the labor without her husband present., Aside from the medical staff, only her bodyguard detail was present in the room. Her husband, Martino Franco, was the premiere Regime scientist. He was a genius in many different disciplines; a renaissance man. He was the type of intellectual that only comes around once a generation and New Megiddo's "brain-drain" made him a "hot commodity". Of course, this also meant that he worked most of his waking hours and thus was not present at his son's birth. Kate would not forget this transgression. More importantly she blamed Martino's age and genes for the plight of her child.

"My little Simon, we have technology that will make your life bearable. I promise this to you. And when I succeed my father as President you will stand tall and proud," she said to her sleeping baby. "I am so sorry my child. I should have been more selective, but I was young and my father insisted on his old friend..." her voice trailed off. Her baby stirred, then began to wail being hungry.. She responded by presenting an ample breast from her robe. Simon found the nipple and began to suckle.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

"Ah, my friend we sure have been through quite a bit, haven't we?" the slight man with the peppered pompadour asked.

"We certainly have, Martino. Without you I would not be in the position I am today. My government and the Reverend,especially,thanks you!" President Schrubb exclaimed, who was dressed in his signature neutral gray suit.

"Johnny, it was nothing. We both recognized the need for the Reverend to be able to reach the masses in the most efficient way possible and we solved that problem." Martino dropped down on a lab stool and loosened his tie. The loose skin of his neck was getting irritated.

"We certainly did, Marty," President Schrubb said. His oxygen supply implant was humming away. The tubes fed purified oxygen to him through his nostrils.

"Boy, I tell ya, life was so much simpler back then. Two stags ready for whatever," Martino recounted nostalgically.

"This is about Simon isn't it? Listen, he's a Schrubb. We're tough. He'll learn to persevere with his condition," Schrubb proclaimed, ever sure of his family lineage.

"Yeah, I don't doubt he'll be a tough tyke. He's not the Schrubb I'm worried about," Martino confessed, running his hand over his cement-hard hair.

"Kate? Don't worry about her. Listen, my daughter has always been strong-headed and fierce but give her some time and space and she'll come to her senses. Hey—you know what? I'll talk to her. How about that?" He slapped Martino on the back.

"I don't think that's necessary, John," he protested.

"Nonsense. I will have a father—daughter talk with her," Schrubb said. He stood and straightened his suit.

"I want to forget about all these troubles. Let's go out, John. Like old times. I could use a couple drinks," Martino suggested. He took off his lab coat and threw it onto a stool.

"I suppose I have some time in my schedule for revelry. I'll ping my driver." Schrubb was silent for a moment while he sent a message via the [Virtue-Net]. The two left the lab in the basement of the Tower of the One; the Presidential palace of sorts, which used the old White House as a glorified porch. They ascended in an elevator to the parking garage just under street level. A black, ancient humvee awaited their arrival. Two L.O.V.E. Rangers mounted atop Scarab motorcycles sat at the rear of the humvee. A man in a black suit stood at attention, opened the door for the men, and entered after them before the vehicle pulled away.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

The black humvee was rarely spotted this far away from the Divinity Center of New Megiddo City, but this was a special occasion. The President was going out for a night on the town. L.O.V.E. Rangers were notified fifteen minutes ahead of time and had gone ahead to clear traffic and set up a perimeter around the destination. The A.P.C. cruised down 'U' Street until it came upon '11th' Street. The intersection was shabby; the mix of residential and industrial buildings were old and in disrepair. It hardly seemed like the appropriate atmosphere for a President to fraternize in. The man in the black suit hurried out of the humvee and reconnoitered out the surroundings. Determining it was safe, he gave the signal for the President and Martino to exit the vehicle. The two walked toward a derelict brick building. The second floor had collapsed. They walked around to the back, flanked by Rangers. They came to a graffiti-covered metal door that opened for them almost immediately. Schrubb and Martino were led down a dingy stairwell and through a second set of doors where they were greeted with bright lights. A large neon sign hung above an entryway that read 'Bohemian Caverns'. A gracious host rushed over and bowed profusely. He gestured for the men to follow, and led them to the Presidential booth at the back of the room, which was larger than all the other boothes. The house was packed, but everyone sat in a nervous silence. There was a jazz ensemble on stage, standing on stage seemingly eager to play once more.

As the President and his companion settled in, he gave a wave of his hand to the host. The host turned to the band and nodded; they hit it. The band began to jam out a tune that would have been at home in the Twentieth Century. The lights dimmed and the room was awash in a red hue. A waiter rushed out an Old Fashioned for the President and Vodka Tonic for Martino, as well as several tapas for them to graze on. The two aged men gyrated awkwardly in their seats to the 'improv' beat. Mentally, they seemed to have been transported back in time to when booze and tail were the only things that mattered. From across the floor, a pair of young women in black cocktail dresses eyed the Presidential booth. Martino shot a glance back at them and then to Schrubb. He shrugged in response. Martino stood and gestured for the two women to join them at the booth.

The two women slinked over to the booth and Martino moved aside to let them sit between the two men. They were all dolled-up, with excessive eyeshadow and blush, and ready for a round of drinks. The waiter brought over two Long Island Iced Teas for the girls. They finished the drinks fairly quickly. Multiple rounds followed and the music became irresistible. The women glowed and nudged the men to the dance floor. The President was uninterested, but Martino took the bait. The two ladies each grabbed one of his hands and led him like a puppy to the dance floor where they danced into the morning hours. The President sat with his drink for a while and when he had his fill of the music and booze he gestured to his detail that he was ready to depart. Martino was too busy with the girls to notice his departure.

The band played on and after another couple of rounds the room swayed for Martino. He pinged a Regime line, reserved for V.I.P.s, and requested a vehicle. He whispered to the women and they giggled and flirted. The three left the dance floor and moved toward the exit. Tonight, Martino would not be going home to Kate Schrubb and his son.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

The Mercier bike frame was in near mint condition despite being ridden often and being over one hundred and fifty years old. The rider heaved and hefted maintaining a cruising speed of twenty miles per hour. He cut through the deserted streets of Annapolis, Maryland. He had been cycling all day, starting out from the New Megiddo City Divinity Center. Thirty miles later he was near the Severn River. Tops of ancient structures could be seen peeking out from the surface of the water; the old waterfront had been claimed by sea-level rise. He had made it to the former neighborhood of Chesapeake Beach. Cruising past a series of checkpoints, no one bothered him. His L.O.V.E. credentials were broadcast to all Regime officials. None would dare badger the newest Inquisitor of Law of Virtue Enforcement. Inquisitor Rodrigo was dressed in a L.O.V.E.-themed spandex jersey and biking shorts. A curious lion-head knob cane was strapped to his side. He rolled up to a sizable estate with no other houses around it. Rodrigo leaned his bike against a stone retaining wall and proceeded up the winding driveway.

After a short walk, he reached the front door of the mansion. The door opened on cue. Minister Kate Schrubb had been expecting him, "Inquisitor Rodrigo, please come in," she beckoned. He followed her into the foyer. Rodrigo wiped a hint of sweat from his brow.

"Minister, I heard the good news. Congratulations on your child," he said, without emotion.

"Actually, Inquisitor, that is why I called you here—my son," she said.

"Oh? A social call?" Rodrigo was perplexed.

"Not quite. Please follow me," she instructed. They ascended the marble staircase and walked down a corridor plastered with Schrubb family portraits. At last they came to a door with a playful, wooden plaque that said, 'Simon'. Kate opened the door and led them into the nursery. The walls of the large room were covered in murals depicting scenes from the Bible. The room was well stocked with all manner of trinkets to mesmerize children. In one corner was a crib that was larger than a twin-size bed. The two walked up to the railing. Within lay Simon Schrubb, sound asleep.

"Isn't he precious? Laying there so innocent," she doted.

"Yes, very much so," he said indifferently.

"One day he will succeed me as President of New Megiddo,but he will have to live a life of seclusion, outside the limelight," she stated solemnly.

"I don't follow, Minister—" Rodrigo was cut off.

"He did not ask for his fate. It was cruelly handed down to him from his father. He was an ill-suited mate," she recounted with contempt in her voice.

"Martino?" he asked.

"Yes, him. Do you know where he is right now?" Her question was rhetorical, but Rodrigo would answer it anyway.

"Well, Minister, my calculations placed him with your father tonight at 'Bohemian Caverns'. Fraternizing with some women—"

She interrupted the Inquisitor.

"Yes, yes. The man is a creature of habit and will never change. He is not the father that Simon deserves and his old age has caused my poor son to be born with a degenerative disease," She was on the verge of tears and her voice seethed with anger.

"I see," was all Rodrigo offered.

"Inquisitor, you are my faithful servant, correct?" Kate asked.

"Of course, Minister. I serve at your pleasure," he confirmed.

"Good." She smiled, "Inquisitor Rodrigo, I have a task for you," she stated..

"I shall carry it out," he said, ever unwavering.

"It would seem that Martino Franco is in need of a vacation; an extended one. He is not quite up for the task of being a father," she said, her voice icy.

"Most excellent. I will begin the operation post-haste," he said before he abruptly turned and walked out of the room without her dismissal. Kate was taken aback that he would disrespect her like that. She composed herself. If he failed in this task, she would take action. It still remained to be seen how effective he would be as Inquisitor. She already was familiar with his ruthless record as a Ranger. Kate had a certain faith in the strange man. She looked down at her child and lightly brushed his face. When retribution was delivered she would feel much better.

_STILL IN THE DARK_

Evan was surrounded by thugs in the bleak alley. He was pretty sure one of his ribs was fractured. He stumbled, but recovered. The five assailants probed for an opening. Evan was a skilled boxer, but there were simply too many. One thug taunted him in an attempt to distract his attention, "Your kind don't belong in our neighborhood. Now you're gonna pay for it, faggot!"

A chubby thug approached Evan from behind and grabbed his shoulder. Evan retaliated with a quick elbow to the face. The chubby assailant squealed and fell upon his butt. Evan felt a sharp pain in his side; another strike to the ribs by a pipe-wielding attacker. That blow robbed Evan of the last of his will to fight. He dropped to one knee, holding his injured ribs. His shoulder length dreadlocks obscured the painful expression on his face.

"That's right, you think you can just come to our territory and fuck men? Now we're gonna take care of you!" the tall gangster exclaimed, swinging a chain around his head ready to land a killing blow.

"Leave that boy be," a voice sounded from the entrance to the alley. The gang members turned around to see who interrupted their hunt. A burly, red-bearded man stood casually. He had long hair and wore a leather trench coat. Evan tried to get a better view but he was in too much pain to focus.

"You must have a fuckin' death wish coming here. You better leave," the gangster warned.

"Negative. I think I'll stick around a bit longer and even the odds," the man said. From under the duster he brandished what looked to be a wooden sword.

"A stick? You're fuckin' dead!" the lead thug yelled. Four of the crew ran at the long-haired man. They hooted and hollered, swinging their weapons menacingly. The thug swung his chain at the man, who side-stepped the attack. He quickly returned a crushing blow to the back of the thug's neck. He shrieked and went down to his knees. The long-haired man delivered an uppercut with the stick sword to the thug's jaw and he fell back, unconscious. Another thug slashed with a knife in quick, but wild succession. The man parried the attacks with his stick sword then delivered a crushing blow to the knife hand that fractured the thug's wrist. The thug let out a yelp, fell to the ground, then rolled over on his back to show submission. When the man's attention turned to another attacker,he scrambled out of the alley.. The thug wielding the pipe attacked with an overhand swing. The man closed the distance and caught the pipe with his free arm before the swing could gain momentum. He kneed the thug in the midsection and then put him in a choke-hold with one arm when a tattooed thug came at him. He thrust with the stick sword and caught the tattooed thug in the eye socket—a wet squish could be heard. The tattooed thug, half-blind and screaming, stumbled out of the alley.

The man laughed at his handiwork, then realized he still had a hold of the attacker in the choke-hold. He let him loose. The thug fell to the dirty pavement, gasping for air. The man swatted the thug on his ass with the stick sword. That was enough to send him scampering away in fear. The man cleaned the blood and saliva off his practice sword and stowed it, then he walked over to Evan who was still crouched on the ground.

"Are you okay there, boy?" the man asked. Evan looked up and saw a red-haired, middle-aged man, who was thick like a tree trunk.

"M-my ribs are busted I think," Evan said, struggling to speak.

"Are you able to walk?" the man asked, "Also, why were they beating on you like that?"

"I-I think it's because they caught me and my lover," Evan said with shame in his voice.

"Now, why would that warrant such a beating?" The man was perplexed.

"Because man, they hate gays,that's why," Evan snapped.

"Oh! Now I get it," the man said, slightly embarrassed. "Well, listen. You should get those ribs checked out—"

Evan interrupted the man.

"Please don't go. They may be back. I'll do something for you if you protect me.Surely there must be something? Know what I mean?" Evan was desperate. He knew that he could not go to a Regime hospital and he was an orphan from the slums of Santa Cruz. He knew that being left wounded in an alley was a death sentence. The thugs had probably killed his lover and he couldn't go back to the slums.

"Nope, not interested in that. Listen—what is your name?" the man asked.

"Evan," he answered.

"Okay Evan, I saw that you have some skill in fighting. There's no reason you should be so afraid that you would whore yourself out to a stranger in the slums," the man stated spitefully. The man began to walk away. Evan started to panic.

"But—you don't understand! I'm dead here like this. I have nowhere to go!" Evan shouted, then winced in pain, still holding his side.

"Calm down, calm down. I'm not leaving you. Look, it just so happens I run a H.E.M.A. school," the man said, trying to console Evan.

"A what?" Evan was confused.

"Historical European Martial Arts school. I can teach you to defend yourself. But, first things first. My name is Craig a Briuis. Now, let's get you out of this alley and patch you up. My school ain't far from here," Craig said. as he put his arm under Evan's to support him.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

Craig a Briuis had brought Evan to his H.E.M.A. school. It was located in an area outside the slums, off of Bay Street, on the edge of the slums in Santa Cruz. The school wasn't awash in downtown money, but he had plenty of paying pupils to make a comfortable living. Craig set Evan up in a back room of his school and helped mend Evan's ribs. After a month and a half of rest, Evan healed up nicely. Craig had given him light chores, like cleaning the training room matts, and polishing and sharpening the edged swords, to earn his keep around the school during his convalescence. The school was the first safe atmosphere he had known since he had been a child. Evan was now seventeen and had been living a ragged existence in the slums for as long as he could remember. When Craig was away from the school Evan would go into the training floor where the fencing strips were located, which were long strips of matte carpeting that kept the fencers aligned to one another. The walls of the room were covered in racks containing wooden practice weapons, blunt sparring blades, as well as sharpened weapons. At the head of the room was a massive bookcase filled with manuals on various martial arts and H.E.M.A. techniques from the past.

On quiet days like this, Evan would pull a sword from its scabbard on the rack and swing it around. practicing with no real technique. In his mind, he was convinced that he was mastering some nameless technique. He was traumatized from the gay bashing abuse he had taken over the years. Practicing with the sword made Evan feel empowered and gave him a sense of security. Evan began to develop an ego, thinking himself indestructible while wielding a sword. Unknown to Evan, Craig had nano-cameras throughout his school that were linked to his neural implant and he had been watching Evan's amateur training. He recognized that Evan possessed a certain amount of innate talent, but clearly had no idea what he was doing. And so it was during one of these secret training sessions that Craig decided to surprise Evan.

"Evan!" Craig yelled out, startling Evan. He fumbled and dropped the sword. He had a foolish look on his face, like a kid that had been caught stealing cookies.

"S-sorry Craig, I just wanted to handle the sword for a bit; to get a feel for it. Won't happen again," Evan offered.

"Nonsense, I know that you fool around with my weapons every time I leave. I watch you. Cameras everywhere," Craig stated. Evan wore a slack-jawed look of surprise on his face..

"I-I—" Evan began.

"I know you fancy yourself quite skilled with that arming sword. Come now, attack me. Show me what you know," Craig demanded. Evan stared at the sharpened blade in his hand.

"You're unarmed and I hold a real sword. I don't want to hurt you," Evan warned.

"Attack me now," Craig demanded again.

"No," Evan refused. Before he could react, Craig snatched a wooden practice sword from a rack and cracked Evan over the back of the head with it. Evan fell to one knee. He looked up at Craig with a wounded expression.

"Damn you, boy. You sleep under my roof; you eat my food and play with my weapons, but you won't obey me?" Craig landed another blow to Evan's back, "Do what I tell you to or go back to the slums!" He postured like he was going to strike again. This time Evan reacted and assumed a defensive posture with the arming sword.

"Let's see what you got in you, or are you just a weak pansy to be preyed upon?" Craig taunted. Evan launched a wide overhand swing of the sword, incensed. Craig easily beat-parried the sword to one side then quickly slid the wooden sword behind the knee of Evan's left leg and tripped him.. Evan landed on the flat of his back on the mat, while he clenched his teeth.

"That's what you've been up to this entire time? Pathetic—fucking pathetic." Craig cracked Evan across his temple with the stick sword. It wasn't hard enough to injure, but it was enough to provoke Evan to rash action as he jumped to his feet. Evan postured for another attack, but his body movements "telegraphed" his intent. Craig easily disarmed Evan with a sword blow to the wrist, then he moved in close and snatched Evan by his arm, sending him flipping through the air, and ended up on his backside once more.

Craig picked up the arming sword,placed it back in its rack and put away the practice sword. Evan sat upright, exhausted and struggled to regain his bearings.

"Nothing. All that time playing with swords and you have learned absolutely nothing. Don't say anything, just be quiet," Craig snapped, "Swordplay takes years to master. There is a process to it; ritual. See that bookshelf over there?" Craig pointed to the huge, oak shelf at the head of the room. Evan nodded.

"You will search out the treatises of Hans Talhoffer, Peter Falkner, and Salvator Fabris. When you find them you will read them within one week. Once you do this, we will then begin your true training. If you do not do this, you can return to the slums." Having made his point clear, Craig turned and headed to his office. Evan, seething with anger, swallowed his pride and slowly made his way to the massive bookcase. He would have quite a bit of searching to do before his weeks' worth of reading could begin.

_LET THE CHILDREN ALONE_

Her mind had been permeated by the intensive curriculum of the H.O.V.E.L. Two years of living in an atmosphere of conditioning and ritual had made quite a zealot out of Ayane. She had set upon the Bible like a hyena to a carcass; shredding its pages and digesting every verse. She found she had more of an affinity for the Old Testament; the morals were clear in black and white. When the other children were out playing in the courtyard, Ayane would sit in the Sanctuary and soak up the parables of vengeance and devotion. She would do this for hours on end waiting for Father von Manstein to send for her. Her visits to von Manstein had become routine over the last couple years. He had told her that it was her duty and that their contact would bring her closer to God. The special attention she received from the Father gave her a certain status and advantage over the other children of the H.O.V.E.L. which aided in her survival. The unnatural attention also, somewhere deep inside of her, lit a great beacon of hatred.

The other children had become jealous of Ayane's favoritism she received. She would get looks of contempt from her bunkmates. The freckled girl, Carlotta, would mutter something abusive under her breath anytime she laid eyes upon Ayane, but Ayane never reacted. She would just cling to the golden crucifix around her neck, a gift from Father von Manstein, and meditate on the word of God. She was alone here, save for the Father, and that was the way she liked it. She did not seek friends or the comfort of others. Ayane sensed that somehow she would be destined for greatness, after all, God had utilized her extensively thus far to please Father von Manstein. There had to be a pay off.

Ayane had seen Carlotta and her gang of girls in the courtyard, always standing in the southwest corner under a giant oak tree, doing bad things. Many troubled children would seek them out each week and would give the girls Tithings, soup, food or supplies in return for a small bundle.. Ayane did not know what it was they purchased, but she knew they were doing something sinful. She thought perhaps it was time that she told Father von Manstein about it and save the girls from sin. She sat patiently in the Sanctuary waiting for Father von Manstein's arrival, all made up to impress, wearing a white, loose-fitting, salor's blouse, pleated skirt, and knee-high black socks. She sat silently, staring straight ahead, focusing on the icon of Jesus on the Cross above the pulpit. Her mind was ablaze with chaotic thought; a morass of mixed emotions. In a way she felt sorry for the girls that Ayane was about to expose. They would surely be punished as Apostates, but Ayane realized that she must do it to save their souls. She felt like her head would explode and she had the urge to scream.

"Ayane? Ayane Inoguchi. Let's go child. Father von Manstein awaits you at the gate," the Chief Warden beckoned her to come. The tide that threatened to overtake Ayane receded.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

They had taken a ferry across the Great Lake of California from Twin Peaks Island to a pier that had built over the submerged ruins of the town called Larkspur. Father von Manstein, Ayane, and his security detail then boarded an A.P.C. . They were en route to a Church retreat lodge reserved for dignitaries that was situated on the peak of Mount Tamalpais. The lodge offered a commanding view of the Great Lake and surrounding settlements. Ayane peeked out the viewport of the A.P.C. and spied the stone and timber facade of the Church lodge up ahead. The building was set against a salmon pink sunset checkered with clouds. The driver announced the party's arrival via neural implant, the vehicle ground to a halt, and the passengers exited the vehicle.

Ayane took a deep breath and tasted fresh, clean air, unlike the smoggy air surrounding Twin Peaks Island. It was peaceful up on the mountain and somehow it made her feel closer to God. She had never really enjoyed growing up in San Francisco; being surrounded by chaotic big city life of an archipelago of islands connected by causeways. Ayane had been born into privilege and had lived on Pacific Heights Island, the only island not connected to the rest by causeway. One had needed special clearance to come to the island by ferry. All that was behind her now.

Ayane entered the lodge. The walls were littered with the trophies of past hunts. Some of the species in the collection no longer walked the Earth. A hodgepodge collection of religious iconography also graced the interior, such as bobble-head Saints, wooden crucifixes, and ceramic dioramas depicting Biblical scenes.

"Come, Ayane. Let us get settled into the master quarters," Father von Manstein directed her, his hand out. She followed his lead down the corridor and into the master bedroom. The room was decorated with rustic, log cabin and steel trap decor.

"How do you like these digs, dear child?" Father von Manstein asked rubbing her shoulders from behind. Ayane felt the fire rekindle in her mind. She realized the need to postpone the inevitable meltdown.

"Father, I need to tell you something. It's about some children at the H.O.V.E.L.—a group of girls—some of my bunkmates..." Ayane didn't quite know how to tell her story.

"Oh, it's okay, Ayane. It can wait," he said, drawing near.

"No! They are sinning. They sell the other children something." Ayane spoke with a sense of urgency. "I'm not sure what exactly. They sell to really bad children, then the children would act strange afterward.". von Manstein furled his brow and sighed.

"Interesting. Are you sure they are not just playing a game?" von Manstein asked. He sat on the king-sized bed and removed his cap, exposing thinned hair.

"Yes, I'm sure. It is something illegal. Maybe they are dealing 'Database'?" she speculated. Her words piqued von Manstein's interest. He sat upright.

"Oh! Well, that would be most dastardly, to have such base activity occurring in a holy place," von Manstein said.

"Yes, you are a Father. Shouldn't you put a stop to it?" Ayane was frustrated by his indifference. She wore a scowl on her face..

"Of course, I will look into these matters when we get back to the H.O.V.E.L.," he stated.

"Thank you, Father!" she exclaimed.

"But right now we are on holiday. So come here Ayane. Let us enjoy ourselves," he summoned her. The fire in her mind became an inferno.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

After several days spent atop Mount Tamalpais, Father von Manstein, Ayane, and his detail boarded a ferry back to Twin Peaks Island and the H.O.V.E.L. When the party returned to the H.O.V.E.L., Ayane went straight to the Sanctuary to be alone. She had been in a particularly unpleasant mood, so Father von Manstein allowed her to be on her way. von Manstein made his way to the Girl's Blockhouse and notified the Warden that he would need entry. The Warden cleared von Manstein to enter the blockhouse and he made his way past bunkhouse cells. He reached his destination and the door was opened for him by the Warden. When he walked in, he found his quarry waiting on her bunk. The little firecracker with the freckle-explosion on her face, Carlotta, awaited Father von Manstein.

"Father, you've come back. Do you have a new stash for me?" Carlotta asked excitedly, jumping off the bunk to approach von Manstein.

"Are you out of your damned mind—dealing out in the open like that?" von Manstein let his fury be known. He towered over the girl. She recoiled in fear.

"I—I am sorry! I didn't know it was so obvious!" she said with eyes watering.

"Sorry doesn't cut it! Perhaps I should find another dealer? One that is more careful?" He eyed her reaction. First she showed panic, but then her fiery temper manifested itself.

"How did you find out? Did your little chink-pet tell you? If it was her I'll twist that slanty-eyed head off her body!" She screamed at the top of her lungs, balling her hands into fists. von Manstein raised his like he was going to strike Carlotta. She flinched.

"Quiet!" von Manstein yelled back, "You'll do nothing of the sort. Calm down. Be more careful where you deal. Don't do it in the courtyard anymore. Wait until dark," he said in a quieter voice. He put a hand on her shoulder as she wept.

"There, there, child. Please, give me the proceeds," he asked. She went to her mattress and slipped her hand into a tear on the bottom. When she pulled her hand out, she grasped a wad of paper money. Carlotta brought it to Father von Manstein. He formally blessed her for it and began to walk away.

"I used to be your favorite, now it's that bitch!" she cried, tears streaming down her face.

"You know, you still hold a treasured place in my heart. Keep up the sales and I will have you out of here very soon." He offered one last smile and then departed.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

Ayane had spent several hours of silence in the Sanctuary. The act of meditation had always been a form of purification for her. She was experiencing something akin to a good mood. A few minutes before, she had received the summons for dinner over the [Virtue-Net] and she strolled leisurely to the dining hall. Ayane was high on religion and not paying attention to her surroundings when something stopped her forward progress. She slammed into Carlotta, who stood firmly like a roadblock, denying Ayane passage. She was accompanied by her two cronies.

"Oh, pardon me," Ayane said meekly, then attempted to pass. Carlotta moved to block her. With one shove, Ayane was on her backside.

"You little shit! You snitched on me, now you're going to learn. The Father can't protect you now!" Carlotta taunted. The other girls laughed. Ayane seethed with anger; the fire lit.

"Don't touch me, you Apostate," Ayane growled, barely audible. The quiet of her voice was probably mistaken as fear by the dim-witted girls, but it was actually a voice so overcome with rage and hatred that it took all Ayane's energy to keep the cork in the bottle. The fire in her mind had intensified to an inferno. One of Carlotta's girls kicked Ayane in the ribs, and the other pulled her hair from behind. Carlotta held something in her hand. Ayane recognized it as a 'Database' applicator. Carlotta was going to stick her with it. Ayane grabbed at the face of the girl who was holding her from behind, but to no avail. The other girl now grabbed Ayane's arms. Carlotta drew closer with a smile.

"This is what snitches get. We're gonna make a customer out of you. You'll be a 'basehead like all the rest!" Carlotta exclaimed.

"Give her 'The Exorcist' strain!" one of the girls yelled. Carlotta jabbed the applicator into Ayane's shoulder. She felt the prick of the needle and the burn of a foreign substance in her veins. She watched helplessly as Carlotta mimicked and laughed maniacally in her face. Ayane began to cry. Her vision became out of focus. The walls appeared to ripple and Carlotta's face twisted and changed from a freckled girl into a pockmarked monstrosity. The world became a morass of color and texture. The voices around her echoed and the pitch fluctuated rapidly. She found herself in an ancient girl's bedroom. The wallpaper was torn and mildew stained. A trundle bed stood before her where a covered figure lay. There was a mirror on the wall covered in scratches and stains. She looked at her reflection; she was not herself. What she saw staring back at her was the form of a middle-aged man. She wore a black suit with a white priest's collar.

Ayane left the mirror. She felt drawn to the bed by some unseen force. She approached the foot of the bed. The figure stirred. She reached her hand out, slowly, to uncover the figure. Before Ayane could react, the figure sprang up and latched onto her with gnarled, claw-like hands. It was a hideous, purple-fleshed demon dressed in little girl's bedding attire. Its jaws snapped and hissed with jagged,rotten teeth and its flesh was blue with open sores. The the eyes were yellow-reptilian.

"I am Lucifer from Hell! Her soul is mine! You will never have it," the demon cackled and squealed with wicked delight. Ayane recoiled at the demon's advance as it crept out of the bed. She felt a strange compulsion to yell something. She had no control and yelled, "The power of Christ compels you! The power of Christ compels you!" Ayane chanted over and over. She grabbed hold of a crucifix that she pulled from her coat pocket and thrust it into the demon's face. The demon shrieked and shrank back. Ayane repeated the action again and again. With each thrust, the demon lost ground and became weaker. Soon she drove it back to the bed. Again she thrust and again she said the words. The demon lay down in the bed and let out a ghastly shriek. Finally, it stirred no more. Ayane fell to her knees, thanking God that the ordeal was over and that He had delivered her from evil.

"Quick! Quick! Administer the anti-drug!" she heard a voice cry. Suddenly, a giant chasm opened in the floor beneath her. Ayane was seized by three larger demons. She struggled and protested, but was overpowered. One of the demons had a tentacle in place of its mouth. It looked at her with cinders for eyes and the tentacle struck out at blinding speed and pierced her chest. Almost instantaneously, the nightmarish realm dissipated and gradually the sounds of reality rang clear and true.

When the fog lifted from her mind, she was presented with another nightmare, one that she could not wake up from. She was being held by two security staff and the H.O.V.E.L. physician was shining a light in her eyes. There was blood on the ground and on her face and hands. She did not know whose it was.

"Oh God, what did you do? What did you do?" the Chief Warden cried. Carlotta lay on the floor in a pool of blood. Three gaping holes could be seen in her neck. The crucifix, the gift from Father von Manstein, lay on the floor beside Carlotta. Ayane screamed.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

When Ayane finally came to, she felt the sensation of transportation; the rumble of an engine and jolting of movement over rough pavement. She had been in shock from coming down off "Database" and from the horror of the scene. She assumed she was being transported to a Regime prison somewhere to await her fate. She sat upright and attempted to distinguish her surroundings from the nightmare she had experienced.

"Ah, you're awake. I thought you would succumb to the 'Database', but you are quite resilient, Ayane," Father von Manstein said. He was sitting across from her in the passenger bay of an A.P.C.

"W—what happened?" Ayane asked, dazed.

"You murdered that girl. That's what happened. They wanted to execute you. I didn't let that happen. Don't worry, I'm taking you to a place where your kind can thrive. Some place where you can be of service to the Lord," he said. Ayane remained silent for the remainder of the journey.

_DOCTRINES OF DEVILS_

Prescott had no leads on his target, the Slum Sage. He had cruised the brothels and speakeasies throughout vast stretches of the Los Angeles slums, and still nothing. Prescott was beginning to wonder if the H.A.T. was making his sources reluctant to give him intel. Prescott was growing tired of having to consume his food through a straw and he could not drink alcohol while healing. Boredom and frustration due to the lack of progress in his contract had set in. He walked aimlessly through the Compton slum, side-stepping rubble piles and human refuse. The Southern California sun beat down on him, the heat made his discomfort worse by the ultra-dry conditions.

Everywhere Prescott looked, he saw people dressed in rags, scrounging in trash piles for objects of value and packs of mangy dogs running about. When he rounded the corner, he came upon a well-dressed man, donning a beige overcoat. The man had primped hair like that of a politician or businessman, not like that of a slum-dweller. Obviously out of place, the man paced the corner casually. Prescott approached.

"Hello, friend. Welcome to my corner. Looking for anything in particular?" the man asked with a slight smirk.

"My quarry is probably not what you are peddling. How is business?" Prescott made small talk.

"Thank you for asking, sir. The people of the slums have certain needs that I can provide. My revenue stream will not dry up anytime soon." The man shrugged.

"I see. I understand that these needs the people have seemed to be replacing their devotion to the Church. Would you know anything about this phenomenon?" Prescott pressed.

"Sir, I am a mere supplier of goods. Matters of culture are left to others. Though I have heard whispers among some of my clientele of a movement of sorts. It seems to be a counterpoint to Church doctrine; more philosophical in nature than religious. I suppose they come to me for the party favors," the well-dressed man explained.

"Most interesting. Do you know if they resell what you supply them?" Prescott dug further.

"Come now. I don't know that much about them. They come from the South; make the long trek up from Anaheim. They are always saying something about the Slum Sage," the well-dressed man continued to smirk. Prescott tried to rub his chin but his fingers collided with the bottom of the H.A.T., then he remembered he wore it.

"Much obliged," Prescott tipped his head a bit.

"Not a problem, Prelate," the well-dressed man said and walked away. Prescott was surprised that the man knew he was a Prelate, and turned to watch him walk down the street. When the well-dressed man reached the next block, an armored black town car pulled over and the man climbed in. The car sped away.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

"Yes, sir. This baby is pre-war tech. It features smart, nano-material tires. They react to their environment dynamically. The power source is a combination of solar-power and a three-dimensionally printed protein brick that is consumed by the motor. If you have a clutch of these "power bricks" you can get across country easily," the machinist informed Prescott. They stood in a ramshackle garage that reeked of lubricants, old oil, and three-dimensional printing ingredients. The space was littered with all manner of spare components. Between the two men was a pre-war, olive-drab Scarab model motorbike.

"Say no more. I only need to get to Anaheim. I'm sold. What is your asking price?" Prescott inquired.

"Five thousand tithes, please," the old machinist requested.

"Negative. I'll give you four thousand, five hundred," Prescott was firm.

"Oh come on, cheapskate. You're an Ordain Prelate; I'm an old slum machinist that would like to enjoy his twilight years! Forty-eight hundred!" the machinist complained.

"Fine, fine. Forty-eight hundred," Prescott relented, "Now, kindly transfer the ownership protocol to my implant." After several minutes, the ownership transfer was complete. Prescott willed the motorbike to start, and the engine roared to life. He mounted the bike and sped off into the slums, leaving the old machinist to blow his tithes on whiskey and brothels.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

Prescott weaved through the chaotic mixture of traffic on the old Route Five. There were pack animal driven carts, rickshaws, motorbikes, pedestrians, and beat-up coaches that released dark clouds of smoke from their exhausts. There was a closed-off lane reserved for Church and Regime traffic, as well as for the rich. Prescott drove his Scarab at fairly unsafe speeds and was not going to let a couple of peds. slow him to his target. He weaved through startled onlookers. After some miles, he reached the turn-off for Anaheim. He entered the surface streets, which were pockmarked, cracked and eroded. Prescott stopped his bike along the roadside. He had been directed to Anaheim but really had no more specific lead; it was a huge area to cover. He felt his frustration returning. If only he could run into another well-dressed man to point his compass in the right direction once more.

Prescott cruised down the street and eventually came upon a pockmarked, but otherwise featureless brick building. He saw many people were going around to the back and he judged it was a speakeasy. of the. He pulled over and parked his bike, then strolled casually around to the back..

A large man with a black beard stood guard at the back entrance. He watched Prescott approached with folded arms, letting his suspicion be displayed on his face.

"Hello. Fine evening for a beverage, eh?" Prescott chirped, attempting to charm the bouncer.

"Take your mask off," the bouncer ordered.

"I'm afraid that's impossible, friend," Prescott informed him.

"Then how do you expect to drink?" The bouncer looked down on Prescott with contempt.

"With a straw, through this hole," Prescott retorted. The bouncer drew closer for a look.

"What hol—" Before the bouncer knew what was happening, Prescott head-butted him with his H.A.T. The bouncer dropped, out cold.

"The hole in your head, my friend." Prescott continued into the building. He was not prepared for the high-pitched, whimsical music that he heard blasting throughout the establishment. The song seemed to be sang by a chorus of children who were describing how small their world was. The tune made Prescott's head hurt. He approached the brightly colored bar. The barkeep was dressed strangely wearing a stained, pseudo-fur dog costume, with big, floppy ears affixed.

"Welcome to Bilsby Bar, where all your dreams come true! What can I get ya?" The barkeep shook his head to get one of the ears out of his face.

"Information is what I crave, sir," Prescott confessed.

"What kind of information?" the barkeep said, puzzled.

"Where would one go to get something other than alcohol?" Prescott asked vaguely.

"This is Anaheim. Bilsby Realm territory. Well, at least it used to be. I heard people still gather there for," he hesitated a moment before continuing. "Viewpoints you can't find elsewhere," the barkeep finished. He looked as though he regretted saying so much.

"Most excellent. Thank you," Prescott said, tossing one-hundred tithes on the counter, then he walked away from the bar.

"Hey! What is it you seek?" the barkeep yelled across the bar.

"For my dreams to come true!" Prescott waved and walked out the door.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

Prescott approached the massive, dilapidated amusement park on his motorbike. Corrugated metal, old garage doors, masonry, steel rebar, and chain-link had been used to construct a patch-work barricade around what was left of the amusement park. Prescott walked along the perimeter, scanning for a breach or easy way to climb over. He spotted a hole that had been cut into a portion of the chain-link and he slipped through. The sight that greeted him on the other side was that of a nightmare; a decaying carnival of a bygone age. A soot-stained, crumbling replica of a medieval castle could be seen in the distance across the vast expanse of a weed-infested parking lot. The castle was flanked by various other structures in a state of decay. There were collapsed roller coasters, a massive artificial mountain that looked to be modeled after Mount Everest, and a Victorian mansion that had been half consumed by a fire.

Prescott jogged across the barren parking lot toward the park. Soon, he found himself surrounded by a freakish world that had been created by a culture foreign to Prescott. He wondered what the purpose of the place had served to the Ancients. He had heard stories of the material wealth of America and knew that escapism had been a lucrative market. People would spend vast sums of money to be transported to fictional worlds. He wondered why such a materially rich society wanted to escape from so much. The same escape back to the hey-day of America was provided by the drug, Database; the highly addictive drug consisting of synthetic proteins encoded with banned media, books, films, news feeds, and pornography.

The remnants of concession stands, cafes, bars, and retail stores lined the pathways of the park. They had been picked clean for anything of value long ago. He thought the most logical thing to do was to head to the artificial castle in the center of the park. The sun had set below the horizon and darkness had crept in, but the night air was hot and muggy. The chaos of the surrounding city and slums was clearly heard in the park. Prescott walked casually down an old, cobblestone path that meandered its way along to the gatehouse of the castle. He kept a hand upon his tomahawk in case of trouble. There was a working portcullis within the gatehouse of the castle; it was up. He walked closer to the castle structure and noticed that it seemed to be well maintained compared to the rest of the park.

When he gazed around the bailey of the castle, he noticed evidence of people living there. Freshly used pots, and smoky grills. Bedrolls were laid out in corners, stills were set up for brewing alcohol, and chickens and other livestock were kept in pens. He wondered where all the people who lived here were. Prescott looked at the castle entrance and saw a figure standing in torch-light. He approached the man.

"Greetings traveler! I haven't seen you around here. If you are a friend and you seek the truth you have come to the right place," the man greeted. As Prescott drew closer, the man's posture stiffened, as the man's eyes glanced at the metal helmet and Prescott's tomahawks as he stepped into the torchlight.

"Come now, sir. This is a place of peace. No need for weapons. Now, what is it you seek? The truth?" the man asked nervously. He was dressed in a hastily spun tunic, seemingly homemade. His eyes were glazed over and he looked sickly. Prescott wondered what ailed him. He eased off his weapons and spoke.

"Yes, the truth is what I seek," Prescott confirmed.

"Marvelous. Then you have come to the right place. Do you have your own supply or shall you purchase from me?" the man asked.

"Pardon—oh, yes. I'll purchase from you." Prescott quickly caught the meaning. He handed the man the required sum and in exchange was given a bundle. Prescott walked through the threshold into a renovated throne room. Many rugs, mats, and cushions had been laid out across the floor where people reclined upon them. Some writhed in ecstasy, others in pain and fear. Some sat in trances and yet others slept. There was a mix of aromas in the air: sweat, incense, food, body odor, coffee, and urine.

"This is just one huge Database den," Prescott thought to himself.

Prescott carefully stepped through the mass of bodies, careful not to trip among the "tripping". The throne room was devoid of decoration and in place of a throne was a simple wooden bench. The cartoonish figures and animatronic creatures had been torn out and heaped into one pile on the far side of the chamber. It appeared that they were being used as wood for fires.

Behind the wooden bench was a passage. Prescott moved toward it. The way was lit by torches. He approached a chamber that had something resembling a railroad track running through the center. The space was decorated with dusty, fairy-tale imagery. A man sat on a Persian rug spread out just before the railroad track. He wore nothing but a wrapped loincloth and had assumed a position like that of a meditating yogi. Prescott moved closer and caught wind of the man's ripe odor. He smelled as though he had not bathed in weeks. He stood silently in front of the man for several minutes, but the man did not stir.

Eventually, the brown-skinned man opened his eyes to reveal bloodshot whites and dilated pupils.

"So, Demon, you have finally come. I have been expecting you," the man said.

"Come again? You have?" Prescott asked, bewildered.

"Yes, of course. My visions foretold it," he said nonchalantly.

"You do know what my purpose is here? The deed I most do?" Prescott pressed further.

"Yes, yes. It is the reason I have spent my remaining time communing with my followers and meditating," the man confirmed.

"Meditating must be a euphemism for dropping 'base," Prescott thought.

"So I am correct that you are the one that goes by the name Slum Sage?" Prescott asked.

"Gah, I detest that title. I am he, yes, but my name is Jyotish Kalburgi," he said.

"Jyotish, why does my employer want you dead? I was expecting an armed insurgency or rebellion, not a drug den," Prescott said.

"Excuse me, sir. This is not a drug den. And your judgment is extremely short-sighted and insulting. My followers and I are not junkies. What we represent is far more threatening to the Church and Regime than simple armed rebellion," Jyotish scolded Prescott.

"Interesting. So what is it that you and your followers represent that is so threatening to the Regime?" Prescott asked facetiously.

"The idea of personal freedom; a secular personal freedom. We are the masters of our own bodies. We eat what we want to eat, love who we want to love, think and say what we want, and experience the substances that we enjoy. Our message is spreading," Jyotish preached. There was a hint of excitement in his voice.

"You do realize that addicts will say the most astonishing things to justify their drug habits, don't you? I call a pile of New Megiddo Tithes my freedom," Prescott mocked him. Jyotish waved a dismissive hand.

"I do not need to rationalize my lifestyle and my teachings to someone so indoctrinated that they do not realize their freedom is fallacy," Jyotish hissed, "Database has shown me perspectives and philosophies that a great many will never be privy to under this Regime. And under this Regime I have nothing and since I had foretold your coming, I have dedicated myself to these principles until such time as my death," Jyotish recounted. Prescott removed a tomahawk from its sheath. The sharp edge glistened in the torchlight.

"Fascinating. Well, obviously you know why I am here and the time is at hand. Any last requests?" Prescott asked, fingering his tomahawk.

"Yes. I wish to die on the peak of Everest."

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

Prescott was riding his Scarab on the highway. With the deed done, he had departed what once was Bilsby Realm. He remembered what Jyotish had said to him before he had split his skull with a tomahawk, atop the summit of the artificial Mount Everest.

"I have seen your demonic face in a vision. You have come with fire and brimstone, from the depths of Hell. Beware the misfortune your demonic nature and appearance will bring you," Jyotish had warned him. Prescott did not know how the Slum Sage had known what his face looked like beneath his H.A.T. but, despite this peculiarity he had fulfilled his contract. He informed the Deacon of his success and the Church had authorized the full amount of the reward for completing his contract. He had received confirmation that he should be fully healed when he had gone back to the black market doctor for a check up, from his operation and that the H.A.T. could be removed. He was anxious to gaze upon himself.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

Prescott could hardly believe six months had passed since he had removed the H.A.T. He had been hugely satisfied with the results of his cosmetic surgery. Since that time, he had accepted a number of contracts from the Deacon. He had been successful in completing a number of contracts with exceptional cruelty, using his ashen gray skin, unholy eyes, and sharp, beastly teeth to instill fear into his targets before he dispatched them. In a number of cases, Prescott had to conduct interrogations, using torture. These contracts he took extra pleasure in completing. He had become extremely wealthy from these contracts and was riding a wave of euphoria.

Prescott had received a message from the administration of Deacon Robertson. He was to receive official recognition for his service to the Church and was ordered to appear in person. Prescott was eager to gloat about how he had put the fear of God into enemies of the Faith utilizing his demonic appearance. He felt sure to impress the Deacon. He left his modest warehouse space in the Hollywood Hills and navigated his Scarab toward the downtown Church of New Megiddo Deaconess building. When he pulled over to the curb, he was greeted with shock and fright from the pedestrians that laid eyes upon him. By now, he was used to this reaction and casually greeted each person as if nothing was amiss. Prescott entered the Deaconess building. The guards started making moves to detain him, but his biometric data broadcasted by his neural implant checked out. Finally, he entered the Deacon's chamber and found the man slumped over on his throne. Deacon Robertson perked up when he heard Prescott's footsteps.

"Ah, Prelate Zimmerman! Glad you could make it. I have great news. The Arch-Deacon is considering granting me a promotion due to your success in ridding us of our enemies," the Deacon exclaimed. He tried to stand upright but his weight defeated his efforts.

"I brought you here because I would like to keep you on retainer as...," Prescott moved closer to the throne. "What the devil? Prescott, what kind of joke is this? Take that mask off," Deacon Robertson demanded with a frown.

"Deacon, it is no joke and no mask. This is my appearance now. I underwent surgery so that I may put the dread of Hell into the enemies of the Faith!" Prescott announced proudly.

"What? You can't be—who in their right mind would...Prelate Zimmerman, you had better be joking! Take it off!" Deacon Robertson's shouts echoed through the hall. Two Rangers came running into the hall from the next room, guns drawn. Prescott was startled at this sudden burst of activity.

"Deacon, sir,I assure you, I meant no disrespect! It is to foster a reputation of terror among the Apostates—"

Deacon Robertson cut him off.

"Apostates? Apostates! You're an Apostate to assume such a ghastly guise! Rangers, seize this Apostate!" the Deacon ordered, red in the face and wheezing from the excitement. By this time, two more Rangers appeared and surrounded Prescott. He thought about trying to fight his way out, but decided against it, seeing the odds. He threw down his tomahawks and was taken into custody by the Rangers.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

When Prescott woke up, he no idea how long he had languished in this cell. Had he been here for a week or a month? He reckoned that the cell was located in the sub-basement of the Deaconess building. He had seen it, once, when he had delivered a target to the Deacon alive. The cells were little better than a medieval dungeon. It was pitch-dark, but Prescott's optical implants allowed him to see in low-light. He caught a glimpse of the graffiti-strewn walls, a filthy and rusted toilet in the corner and the cockroaches that scurried around the cement floor.

"You there! Apostate. Approach the door," a Ranger ordered. Prescott did as the man asked. The Ranger handed him what looked like a Database applicator. Prescott furled his brow in puzzlement.

"What is this?" Prescott asked.

"Do it," the Ranger ordered at gunpoint.

"I don't understand." Prescott protested. The Ranger responded by shoving the muzzle of the gun into Prescott's brow.

"You will understand in time," the Ranger said. Prescott injected the Database into his arm. Synthetic proteins encoded with some mysterious data raced through his bloodstream en route to his neural implant. As the minutes ticked by, Prescott felt himself getting weaker. The world around him began to blur. He felt his heartbeat slow and then stop. He could no longer breath. Everything went dark.

_THE LABORER DESERVES HIS WAGES_

Inquisitor Rodrigo had thrown himself into his current mission with the fervor of a zealot. Originally the secret briefing called for two Rangers to carry out the mission, but Rodrigo concluded that the less people that knew about it the better, and so he took it on himself. Rodrigo had grown bored in his administrative capacity, so he was looking forward to hands-on work. Rodrigo was already in the field, spending long stretches of time enjoying the Annapolis beach, waiting for the right time to make a move. Some emotion that resembled jealousy materialized in his brain; the First Daughter gets a waterfront mansion on the Chesapeake Bay while he was assigned to modest quarters in the M.O.S.S. building.

Inquisitor Rodrigo had been sanctioned by Kate Schrubb to make her husband and father of her child disappear. Rodrigo did not ask how far reaching his powers would be in this operation. He simply assumed that an op of this nature required special handling and nothing would be off-limits. He spared no expense to profile the mansion's security system knowing its strengths and vulnerabilities. He figured he could now stroll in if he really wanted to. Rodrigo had also entered Kate Schrubb's mansion and had planted listening devices. He would need as much intelligence as possible.

Rodrigo was dressed in all black and had covered his upper-body in scrub from the dunes on the beach where he had been spending countless hours staring out to sea waiting for something of interest. He missed his one love in life - cycling. This mission did not afford him time to go on his usual daily rides of sixty miles. He wagered that this mission, if carried out, would win him and L.O.V.E. a degree of autonomy they wouldn't otherwise have. He spent the many of hours of down time scheming and plotting out his moves well into the future.

"Sally! Thanks for calling. How are you? It's been a while." Rodrigo's H.U.D. was triggered due to audio activity picked up by Rodrigo's bugs. He listened with intent.

"Oh, I am so glad that everything is going well for you and your family. How was your vacation to Wainwright, Texas? I bet it was inspiring." The mind-numbing small talk continued. Rodrigo caught himself zoning out and so he refocused his attention.

"Well, you know, he works a lot. He's the Regime's top scientist!" Kate recited sarcastically. Rodrigo smirked when he realized that she had not been telling all.

"Exactly. You think he would make more time for his newborn son and family. Yeah, Sally, he married into the First Family. That should count for something!" Kate complained. Rodrigo considered to stop spying when he heard his name.

"Oh yeah, we have a new Inquisitor. That one is definitely married to his work. A bit of an oddball, you know. Not very socially adept. I swear, Sally, if it wasn't a death sentence under the law, I would tell you that the man is gay." Kate laughed. A few more lines were said. Rodrigo just stared out to sea when he heard the words, showing no emotion. He decided that there was nothing more of value to glean from the conversation. He would stow what had been said about himself in the back of his mind as plans for the future.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

In the early hours of the morning Inquisitor Rodrigo had been asleep in his bedroll for several hours. The sound of the tide hitting the shore and gentle sea air had provided a suitable environment for slumber. Suddenly his H.U.D. buzzed with an alert. Rodrigo stirred and turned his attention to his H.U.D. A line of text read "Vehicle Activity Detected". Rodrigo had slept fully dressed and so he rushed to the top of a dune that overlooked the driveway to the front of the mansion. Rodrigo refined his field of vision and focused in a stumbling figure, which had exited a vehicle. The vehicle I.D. was assigned to Martino Franco and he was stumbling toward the front door. Rodrigo deduced that he had been out all night drinking.

Rodrigo witnessed Martino enter the house, so he turned his attention to the audio being picked up by his bugs in the mansion. At first there were no sounds other than rummaging through the refrigerator, then he heard a prolonged stream of urine splashing into the water of a toilet bowl. Some inaudible mumbling followed along with the sound of more liquid being poured over ice. The mumbling became louder.

"The Reverend—so high maintenance =I should have never -." Martino trailed off. He began snoring. Rodrigo considered terminating the feed and going back to sleep when he heard footsteps descending stairs.

"There you are again! Staying out all night and doing God knows what. How long has it been since you laid eyes on your son?" Kate scolded him. Martino jumped awake and groaned.

"What are going on about, woman?" Martino snapped, followed up by more drunken stammering.

"The husband of the First Daughter does not act like this!" she yelled back, shaming him.

"He does if he is responsible for the continued success of the Church and Regime of New Megiddo!" Now the yelling match has begun in earnest. Rodrigo sighed.

"My father appreciates what you have done for New Megiddo. Now get fucking over yourself! You are a terrible father! You're the reason—" she stopped herself from finishing her sentence, but Martino knew what she would have said.

"Yeah, I know you blame me for Simon because of my age. Somehow, even if I presented hard science to you that proved that is was not my fault, you'd still hold it against me," he said calmly.

"I have given you so many chances, Martino!" she hissed.

"Yep, I also know you have your Ministry cronies watching my every move. I don't care. Keep on spying," he dismissed the danger.

"I will. Goodbye Martino," she said coldly. Rodrigo could make out footsteps ascending stairs. He then heard some more minutes of mumbling, then, finally, snoring. Rodrigo figured this was the perfect time to make his move. He dashed down the sand dunes and sprinted through a fruit orchard flanking the mansion. He made his way across a vast lawn to Martino's car that had been parked crookedly. Rodrigo then made a sprint to the front door of the mansion and used his H.U.D. to hack the security system. The large, wooden double-doors opened for Rodrigo and he casually strolled in go about his work.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

Kate Schrubb had awoken fairly late. The display on her H.U.D. read "Eleven A.M.". She was guessing that Simon had been awake for hours. Fortunately for the First Family, they could still rely on pre-war drone technology to help out with the burdens of everyday life. She was reassured that the Motherly Instinct Drone for Well-being, Inspiration, Faith, and Enlightenment, or M.I.D.W.I.F.E., was hard at work looking after Simon. She dragged herself out of bed,wrapped her robe around her frame, and proceeded downstairs. Kate walked through the lounge and noticed that Martino was already gone. She was surprised that he had risen before her, having been in a drunken stupor the night before. She thought nothing else of it and headed to the kitchen for some breakfast.

Kate cracked some eggs into a skillet for an omelet. She pulled fresh produce from a drawer in the refrigerator and started to cut each on a board. Bell pepper, onion, cheese, and avocado were thrown onto the eggs and soon her omelet was ready. Kate made short work of her delicious omelet and headed back upstairs to change into her running gear. When she descended the stairs to the foyer, her slender frame was clad in contour-hugging synthetic, smart, nano-material designed to change its mass depending on the surrounding environment and temperature and to offer ventilation or warmth when needed. Kate started in on her pre-run stretching regimen. Cherry-picking, side bends, toe stretches, and jumping jacks followed. Mid-jumping jack, an envelope on a table by the front door caught her eye.

Kate stopped what she was doing and reached for the envelope; it had her name written across the front. She tore it open with her thumb and pulled out the folded sheet of paper. She unfolded it and began reading.

"Kate-

I am so sorry that I have been a terrible husband and father. I was not meant for New Megiddo life and I have become a burden to you and your family. I have decided you would be better off without me and I would be better off living a different life. Don't bother trying to find me as I have covered my tracks with utmost care. You will never see me again. I hope Simon grows into a brave, strong man. I do love you two.

With Sincerity,

Martino Franco"

Kate immediately knew that these were not his words and that it was not written in his hand. She realized that the deed had been done by Rodrigo. How he had pulled it off she did not know, nor did she want to know. Kate smiled. She decided that she would go for an extra-long run today and enjoy the amazing weather outside. For the first time in a long time, she was happy.

_FOOLS DESPISE WISDOM_

Evan had to get out of the H.E.M.A. school for a of couple days. He had been reading treatises, drilling, and sparring with Craig for many months solid. He had gone out into the slums and sought booze, music, and love. He had stopped into one of his old haunts, the Reliquary, a religious-themed bar that was anything but. The joint was run by Sister Sarah, and had been around for as long as he could remember. It had always been a den of vice where one could find what they want - companionship, drinks or Database. The previous night he had met a fellow who had taken a liking to Evan and so they had sealed the deal. After the wild night, Evan did not wake up at his usual time. Half the day was gone already and he had a killer headache.

Evan rushed out of the shanty he had spent the night at into the chaotic morass of the slums. He bumped into a man hauling water down the street and apologized. Evan picked up the pace to a slow jog. After covering several blocks, he reached the outskirts of the slums near the H.E.M.A. school. Evan rushed through the front doors. When he entered, he saw that Craig was instructing a couple of clients in fencing. When Evan entered the school, Craig stopped the lesson and turned to stare at him. Craig abruptly sent his clients out the door, quite perturbed.

"You've missed your sparring regimen for three days in a row now. Tell me, Evan, how is your swordsmanship right now?" Craig pulled a practice sword from the rack and tossed it at Evan's feet.

"Look, I just needed a little break. Can't we resume tomorrow? I need some sleep." Evan complained. Barely after he finished his sentence, Craig had closed the distance between he and Evan and had delivered a wooden sword blow to Evan's back, sending him stumbling forward.

"No! I will see what you have learned, now!" Craig demanded, posturing for another attack. Evan let out a groan and tumbled out of the way of Craig's attack, snatching the practice sword from the wall rack in the process. He assumed a defensive stance.

"I meant no disrespect, Craig! Take it easy!" Evan pleaded to no avail. Craig launched into a series of high and low strikes, probing Evan's defenses. Evan did his best to parry and ward off the attacks, but every now and then hits were landed. Evan had no protective gear on, so the thrust to his ribs and the chop to his forearm was excruciating. Evan tried to draw some strategy from the months of studying martial treatises to counter Craig's barrages. He remembered that you must never find yourself on the defensive; keep the pressure on. Evan changed tactics. He made sure to close the lines of attack, then he parried a lazy strike from Craig resulting in a thrust landed to Craig's chest. Craig stumbled back and smiled.

"Aye, lad. I bet you are proud of yourself with that one, but it would have been a flesh wound and you failed to finish me off!" Craig let out a thunderous yell and hooked Evan's sword with his. He disarmed Evan then picked him up off his feet and body-slammed him to the mat. The air was forced out of Evan's lungs. He lay where he fell, not moving, still trying to figure out what happened.

"You come into my school, reeking of booze, out all night doing your whoring, and you think you can just stroll back in here without being tested?" Craig put the sword to Evan's neck.

"Craig, I—" Evan was cut off.

"Shut up! If you love the slums so much, you can—" Before Craig could finish the front door opened and in walked a well-dressed man, donning an overcoat.

"So sorry, hope I'm not interrupting anything important!"

Craig looked over, wearing a surprised look on his face."You! I—uh—How can I help you?" Craig stumbled over his words. He approached the man.

"Well, I am interested in talking to you about enrolling of course," the man said with a smile. He shook Craig's hand.

"Yes, of course. Let's talk in my back office," Craig said, directing the man to the back. Craig shot a dirty look in Evan's direction to express unfinished business. Evan was thankful for the reprieve from punishment that had been delivered by the man's arrival. He got up from the floor, dusted himself off and, angered, decided to leave the school to go for a walk.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

"I didn't think I'd hear back from you, honestly. I'm glad you appeared when you did. I was about to murder the whelp," Craig confessed with a furrowed brow. He sat behind his desk in a torn leather chair and lit a cigarette. The man in the overcoat also lit up.

"Oh come now! He couldn't have been that big of a pain?" the man asked, surprised at his words.

"The boy has talent, that much is true, but I have no love for sodomites. Your promise is the only thing keeping that boy alive," Craig growled while exhaling smoke.

"And I plan to keep that promise. Do you believe the boy has progressed enough in his training?" the man asked.

"Aye. He tapped me a few good ones. If he can do that I believe one day he will surpass my skill level," Craig said.

"That is good news, considering you were one of the most highly-decorated Rangers during the 'Holy War' with China. That's a compliment coming from you." the man exclaimed.

"Right. I did my duty to New Megiddo, and to that boy out there, so I'll be taking my due and my passage. I long to see the land of my forbearers. Is everything in order?" Craig's asked impatiently.

"Down to brass tacks? Okay, yes, everything is ready. I will send someone with the exact time and location of the ship," the man in the overcoat informed Craig.

"Very well. Pleasure doing business with you. I look forward to getting out of this God-forsaken, shit-hole you call New Megiddo," Craig snorted in a haze of cigarette smoke.

"Great, I'm off then. Oh, one more thing Craig, give the kid a break. When you leave make it seem like it's a sincere farewell. Maybe leave him a weapon or something?" the man suggested.

"Yeah—yeah. I will think it over. Cheers!" the man could sense that Craig was dismissing him, so he dashed his cigarette out and left the school. Craig leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on his desk. He could hardly believe that his escape was nearly at hand. He thoroughly enjoyed the remainder of his cigarette.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

Evan walked into a slum bar. The blows he had taken from Craig's assault coupled with the hangover from reveling was too much to bear. When he approached the counter, he ordered a bourbon shot and a beer. Evan tossed back the shot glass and savored the burn, then chased it with his beer. He looked over the bar and saw many locals slumped over in a drunken stupor. some stared down at their drinks blankly. He contemplated ordering another shot, but then Craig's words had echoed in his head.

"Shit! What am I doing?" Evan thought to himself. He resolved to return to the school and resume his training. He knocked back the last of his beer, slapped down a tithe on the bar and took his leave. He strolled down the slum allies, not in any particular hurry to get back to the school and face Craig's anger once more. He just hoped that Craig had enough time to simmer down. Soon, he was in front of the school. He hesitated to enter. Evan summoned enough courage, partly from the whiskey, flung the door open and stepped in. Craig was not present in the training space.

"Craig!" he called out. No answer came. He looked in the back office. Aside from residual cigarette stench, there was no sign of Craig. Evan checked the storeroom that he had made into a makeshift bedroom. Nothing. Evan didn't really think much of it. He just thought that Craig stepped out to blow-off steam. Evan decided that he would practice some techniques, so he stepped over to the training mat. He approached a weapon rack to retrieve a practice sword. From the corner of his eye he spied a note with his name on it hanging from Craig's family Claymore that hung on the wall in the center of the training floor. Evan approached and snatched the note up. He unfolded it and read,

"Evan—

There is much I have not told you about myself and this is probably a good thing. I have a long and storied history with the Regime, particularly L.O.V.E. and the Rangers. I had not entirely retired, being still on reserve duty and they had recently called upon me, so I have left on a mission I cannot tell you about. Needless to say, I will not be returning. I have left a few things for you, namely all those treatises you love so much. Stick with them, boy! They will be your best friend. Also, I have no need for the Claymore on the wall. It is my Clan sword, so treat her well. As for yourself, I recommend putting your skills to use. Seek out L.O.V.E. and enlist if you can. You will be a great asset. It may be your only survival strategy, with your "affliction", to hide among the establishment—if you catch my drift.

Farewell,

Craig a Briuis"

Evan crumpled the paper in his hand. Immediately he was suspicious. Why would a man with so much just suddenly disappear? Maybe he was telling the truth. Evan decided that he should not hang around the school for too much longer. Once word got out that Craig had disappeared, the looters would soon arrive and most assuredly that gang would be looking for revenge against Evan. He at least had the night to pack and plan his next move.

Evan looked up at the Claymore with its ornamented quillons at the ends of the cross-guard and polished pommel. He could see his own reflection in the shiny double-edged blade. He reached up and grabbed it by the hilt. The sword was lighter than he expected. He realized that extra weight was given to practice swords to develop the muscles used for sword-play. He looked around Craig's office for the scabbard that accompanied the sword. Evan opened a filing cabinet drawer and found the leather scabbard and carrying strap. When he pulled it out of the drawer, he spied something underneath. It was a Database stash. Evan was perplexed, as it seemed Craig did not have a habit. He decided to take it because he could sell it on the street for a profit. Evan returned back to the practice floor and approached the large bookcase containing the many treatises. He went about the task of selecting the most concise treatises to take with him as he only had limited space. That night he would go to bed early as to get a good night's sleep. He would rise early the next morning and would disappear once more into the slums.

_ENTER THROUGH THE NARROW GATE_

This was the day that Ayane Inoguchi would meet with von Manstein, who had recently been raised up to the rank of Deacon of the Pacific North West. His jurisdiction also encompassed the Great Lake Region of California where Prelate Inoguchi was based. Her most recent target as an Ordained Prelate had fled as far south as the barrens of the Grapevine. Eventually, she had taken care of her quarry and so it was convenient for her that Deacon von Manstein happened to be in Los Angeles to meet with Deacon Robertson of Southern California. Deacon von Manstein always insisted that she come to him in person to collect her bounties on contracts. It was one of the stipulations for saving her life after what had happened at the Twin Peaks H.O.V.E.L. There was no use in resisting, but the fire in her mind was ever-present.

Prelate Inoguchi could hardly believe that it had been a year since she had been put through Ranger training by von Manstein. Ayane knew that she was favored by God but she had doubted her ability to master the training. She had passed with flying colors, but was not enlisted into the L.O.V.E.R.s. Instead, she would become the Church's most skilled assassin. This role she thrived in; an outlet for her never-ending reserve of fury. She was on her way to collect on her fifth successful contract. Each time the sum increased. She did not, however, look forward to meeting von Manstein again.

Prelate Inoguchi pushed down on the accelerator pedal of her vehicle. She had purchased the slab of a car from a shady dealer in Nueva San Jose for the trek down south. Prelate Inoguchi had heard a rumor that in the Twentieth century this type of automobile had been called a grocery-getter. Of course, her current vehicle did not run off of petrol, instead relying on a combination of solar and power bricks. It maneuvered like an elephant on plastic skates. Prelate Inoguchi sped through the L.A. slums in her grocery-getter, causing pedestrians to jump out of the way. After some time, she reached the downtown district and found a place to park her boat of a car.

She came upon the Deaconess building where Deacon Robertson was headquartered. Her Prelate credentials were broadcast to the guards and she passed with no hassle. She walked into the dark, cavernous throne room. She could hear Deacon von Manstein and Deacon Robertson conversing before she actually caught sight of them due to the acoustics of the structure. The two Deacons stopped talking and turned to her as she approached.

"Ah. Prelate Inoguchi—this is the Prelate that I have been raving to you about, Deacon. I trust that she will more than make up for the loss of your Prelate—what was his name?" von Manstein asked, standing next to Robertson's throne.

"Zimmerman. I still can't believe the man literally turned himself into a demon! I couldn't let that stand!" Robertson complained. The rolls of his many chins undulated with every word he spoke. "His body even disappeared! Blasted black market body thieves!"

"Yes, as I was saying, Prelate Inoguchi here will take care of the West Coast. Isn't that right, Prelate?" Deacon von Manstein prompted her to break her silence.

"Yes," she said.

"Hmm, well, statistics are the only thing that impresses me. She seems to have a perfect record. Let's hope that it stays that way," the plump Deacon stated. He scratched under one of his fat rolls through his robes. von Manstein and Inoguchi stared awkwardly at the spectacle.

"I assure you, Robertson," von Manstein said, slightly irritated.

"At any rate, how's our old friend, Zhukov? I heard he made Cardinal?" Deacon Robertson changed the subject.

"Yes, a rising star that one. I haven't seen him in several years as he has taken up residence in the Church Central Authority building in New Megiddo City," von Manstein recounted. Prelate Inoguchi stood in silence.

"You just watch, von Manstein! I will take the top spot! Arch-Deacon Robertson has a nice ring to it!" The Deacon launched his arms into the air when he said this. Waves rippled through his hefty frame.

"God willing," von Manstein said dryly. "Well, I suppose I will leave you to your duties. I must settle accounts with Prelate Inoguchi here and that can take quite a bit of time," von Manstein was eager to get the Prelate alone. Prelate Inoguchi could sense it.

"Very well, von Manstein. May the Lord be with you," Robertson dismissed them. Deacon von Manstein and Prelate Inoguchi made a hurried exit spilling out onto the street and feeling the hot city air closing in on them.

"I swear that man gets bigger every time I see him," he chuckled. Prelate Inoguchi nodded. He looked her up and down. She stared into his eyes coldly.

"I know that look. You want your reward! Come, Ayane, let us enter my A.P.C. I hope you are ready for a lengthy journey north. I have quite the reward in mind for you and we can have some alone time during the trip," he said, with a smile that bared his teeth. She turned her head away.

"I—I can't go with you. I have my vehicle here. Just tell me where to meet you—" she was interrupted.

"Nonsense! Yes, I have heard of your grocery-getter. That is hardly a vehicle fit for a Prelate. No, I won't have it. Come, follow me," von Manstein insisted. He started off toward his A.P.C. Prelate Inoguchi followed behind reluctantly, her inferno raging.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

The trip north inside von Manstein's A.P.C. had been traumatic for Prelate Inoguchi. It had triggered flashbacks to her terrible childhood at the H.O.V.E.L. No matter how many times she was set upon by von Manstein, she could never get used to it. All she could do was shut down mentally and be somewhere else until it was over. Eventually von Manstein had slipped into slumber and so she was offered a reprieve. She sat in silence for the remainder of the trip, praying profusely to God. She noticed a bag under Deacon von Manstein's seat. It looked to have contained Database applicators. She wondered if von Manstein had a habit or if he was a pusher. Then she remembered the incident with Carlotta; it all made sense.

Not long after, the driver announced that they had reached their destination. Deacon von Manstein stirred. He yawned and pushed his fingers through his peppered hair, then put his cap back on his head. The rear ramp of the A.P.C. lowered and cold air rushed into the passenger bay. Prelate Inoguchi could see that they were surrounded by forest. von Manstein exited the vehicle and turned to Inoguchi.

"We are here: Kelly Butte. Are you ready for your reward?" von Manstein beckoned her to follow him. She felt ill-at-ease. Had she been taken here to be disposed of? Was that her reward? She stepped out of the A.P.C. reluctantly. She looked around at the landscape. She noticed that they were atop a hill somewhere. Something didn't feel right about the place. The trees and undergrowth had a grayish tint to them; they seemed sickly. The sky was overcast and drizzling. The wind howled through the tree-tops. von Manstein and his driver walked toward a nearby thicket. The driver rushed ahead.

The driver began to remove branches from the thicket that had been piled up intentionally to hide something. When he cleared the foliage, she could make out a cement structure that seemed to be the entrance to a bunker. von Manstein sent a command via his neural implant for the steel door to open. Hydraulic cylinders hissed with activity and the metal door swung open to reveal darkness.

"Shall we?" von Manstein and his driver entered. Prelate Inoguchi slowly followed. She wanted to know what she was walking into, so she looked up Kelly Butte on the [Virtue-Net]. The text scrolled passed on her retinal H.U.D. The official article stated that Kelly Butte was a cinder cone in an extinct lava field. At the beginning of the Twentieth century, a prison was built on the summit and the prisoners had provided cheap labor for the crushing of rocks that were used to pave Portland, Oregon's streets. Several decades later, a massive civil defense bunker was built into the butte. Since that time, it had been used for many different purposes - an infectious disease quarantine zone, an emergency dispatch facility, and most recently it had been a Church safe-house. Inoguchi followed the men through a dank, dimly lit corridor.

After some time, they reached a massive, open chamber. von Manstein sent a command for the lights to activate. The overhead lights struggled to life, flickering. Prelate Inoguchi was surprised to see that an ancient sports car was parked in the middle of the chamber. Next to it was a large pile of stacked, wooden crates that gathered dust. Prelate Inoguchi profiled the old car using the [Virtue-Net]. The car turned out to be a 1968 Dodge Charger. It was jet-black in color with the exception of a bold, white cross painted on the hood like a holy racing stripe with the vertical bar spanning the body length of the car. She kicked the tire.

She looked up at the structure of the chamber. The space was an elongated dome shape, almost as large as an old-world football field. On the far wall, she could make out a faded, ancient mural that had been painted on the wall. The artist had used a perspective trick to give the illusion that the chamber continued on to an outdoor vista. Stone ruins emanated from the bunker opening terminating in the background of the mural among a landscape of rolling hills, trees, and a salmon-pink sunset in the sky. She surmised that it had been painted to put employees who had worked here at ease from working in a drab subterranean environment.

"What do you think? She's a beauty isn't she? Much more appropriate for a Prelate of your stature than that grocery-getter of yours," von Manstein exclaimed excitedly.

"She is quite a machine," Prelate Inoguchi said without emotion. von Manstein ran a hand over the hood.

"She may require some maintenance as she hasn't been used in quite a while. This is your new home to do with what you please—but..." he trailed off.

"But?" she asked.

"But there are conditions you must agree to," he stated.

"What conditions?" she pressed.

"You will be permanently on retainer to the Church of New Megiddo to bring the enemies of the Faith to justice. For life. Your tasks will be unpleasant and difficult, but you already know this. Do you accept?" he asked with anticipation. Prelate Inoguchi mulled it over in her mind. She wanted to refuse and tell him to leave, but she knew that it would mean her life if she refused.

"Very well. I accept. But I have two conditions of my own," she replied.

"Conditions—you?" he scoffed.

"You heard me right," she stated.

"Okay, what are these conditions of yours?" he asked, visually annoyed.

"First, I am to be the only Prelate that the Church employs this side of the Mississippi," she proclaimed. His eyes narrowed.

"That's a tall order. Would you even be able to handle that volume of contracts?" he asked skeptically.

"Of course," she said plainly.

"Fine. What is your second condition?" he asked while pacing back and forth.

"Secondly, I want full autonomy as a Prelate of the Church of New Megiddo. That means you must consider my debt to you for saving me at the H.O.V.E.L. fulfilled. No more visits," she said coldly. She shot him a look with piercing eyes that reached his soul. He returned a wounded look like he had just been shunned by a lover.

"F-fine. It is done. But—if I do this for you—then you better not disappoint me in your performance. You would not like what happens when I'm disappointed." von Manstein made his threat clear.

"Then it's settled. We have a deal," she confirmed. von Manstein walked slowly over to the pile of crates. He pulled a crate off the pile and placed it on the ground. He forced open the top.

"These weapons are surplus and have been stored here for ages. Perhaps they will come in handy for you in the future," he said. Prelate Inoguchi approached the crate and looked inside. There were chrome cylinders in rows. She picked one up and inspected it. There were a safety and an activation switch on the side of the cylinder. Disengaging the safety, she flipped the switch. A white-hot jet of plasma shot up from the shaft. Inoguchi had been startled by the brightness and intensity of the jet. She deactivated it,placed the shaft back into the crate, and nodded approvingly.

"Well, Prelate. I guess this is it then," he said, with a dopey smile on his face and giving a gesture to embrace. She was hesitant to embrace him, but she figured it was necessary, so she did. von Manstein held her until things got awkward, then he released her. He turned and slowly walked toward the exit with his driver, then stopped.

"Enjoy your new home. If you ever change your mind, you know where to find me. May the Lord bless you in your ventures!" he exclaimed.

"God-speed and safe travels," she replied. They departed the bunker. Prelate Inoguchi smiled to herself as she experienced something akin to happiness and relief. He would no longer have free reign over her. Prelate Inoguchi stood for a moment reciting a prayer of thanks to God. She decided she would turn to the task of making this drab bunker livable. She would make it a proper hermitage.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

von Manstein had sat silent for the last several hours during the return trip south. He felt a dark depression overtake him as he was not handling his breakup well. He could not understand why Ayane had forsaken him after all he had done for her. von Manstein poured over the rosters of children living at H.O.V.E.L.s in his jurisdiction, intent on finding his next protégé. Deep down he knew that none could replace his sweet Ayane Inoguchi. He began to sink into a worsening mood and needed distraction. He eyed the bag of Database under the seat and reached for an applicator. He rolled it in his palm, contemplating what he should do.

"Just one dose to take my mind off things," he resolved. He primed the applicator and injected the drug into his shoulder, then sat back and waited for the drug to take effect. Soon he would be transported to another time and place.

_BEHOLD A PALE HORSE_

Today the slums of Los Angeles were abuzz with activity. There was an air of festivity among the people. The Reverend Wilhelm Wainwright had appeared to all the Virtuous citizens of L.A. and announced that the Vice Deacon of the Church of New Megiddo, their own Cornelius Robertson had come back to ordain a new Deacon of Southern California. The Reverend had proclaimed that the Vice Deacon's motorcade should be received by cheering crowds on the street. Church agents had been sent out to the slums with promises of free bread and dairy to whip up the excitement of the crowd. The procession route had been marked out through the slums, into downtown, and finally to the Deaconess building. The man in the black fatigues had traced the route via his neural network and moved through the route by rooftop and alleyway. He had made a note of all its features and bottlenecks and he had passed on his data to his collaborators.

"This is Pale-Silence; I do believe I have found the ideal position. All units redeploy around these coordinates," the black-clad man said, peeking out from behind a ruined generator to the street below. He observed many slum-dwellers rushing to Church agents in charge of allocating gift rations. They were accompanied by Regime soldiers who encouraged the ravenous masses to form queues. Hungry children cried excitedly when they were handed a slice of bread slathered with butter. They raised chants of "New Megiddo Invictus!" and "Praise President Schrubb and Reverend Wainwright!".Crowds began to line the sidewalks of the procession route, barricaded by soldiers and metal barriers. He shook his head in contempt for the scene. The Man in Black unstrapped a case affixed to his back. He opened the case and inspected the wares contained within.

"Soon." he thought.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

"Well, Deacon Baker, I know that you are stepping into very big shoes to fill. But don't worry! I have left the office of L.A. Deaconess in tidy order," Vice Deacon Robertson blurted, his mouth half-filled with chicken meat. He embraced a bucket of fried chicken and crumbs had cascaded down his robes. Deacon Baker sat next to him in the backseat of the armored town-car. Their vehicle was snug between two military A.P.C.s and flanked by several L.O.V.E. Rangers patrolling on foot.

"Yes, Vice-Deacon, I am honored to take up the mantle of Deacon of Los Angeles," Deacon Baker confessed. He was a frail man, looking as though he could expire at any moment. His frame was slight, with deep-set eyes and had a sausage of a nose.

"If you need anything from the Central Authority you just reach right out and let me know! I plan to make an impact as Vice-Deacon, you will see." Vice Deacon Robertson tore the flesh from a chicken leg and packed the meat in his cheek like a chipmunk storing nuts.

"Vice Deacon, what advice do you have for me regarding this "Demon of Los Angeles"? Last week he claimed another Regime patrol. I would like to start my tenure with a major victory," he meekly confessed. Vice Deacon Robertson spat a piece of cartilage and skin into the bucket of chicken, then let out a sigh.

"Are you already worrying about such trivial matters? This is your big day, a time for celebration," Vice Deacon complained.

"Yes, I suppose you are right—a time for celeb—" Deacon Baker stopped mid-sentence when he looked out his window and witnessed one of the Rangers jogging alongside the car fall down on the pavement. "Did you just see that?" Deacon Baker asked nervously, pointing out the window.

"See what, Deacon? I fear—" Another Ranger went down, this time in the Vice Deacon's field of view. Cries rang out of "Sniper!" Rangers scanned the rooftops with the scopes of their rifles. One Ranger pounded on the Deaconess armored car and the procession escort vehicles picked up speed in an effort to escape the snipers. Regime Regulars fanned out entering nearby buildings to search for the attackers. The lead A.P.C. of the procession was about to round a corner when the facade of the last building on the block was blown outward into the street like a pyroclastic flow from the slope of a volcano. The lead A.P.C. was upturned on its side and half buried in rubble. The vehicles in the rear of the procession shifted into reverse with smoking wheels spinning against the rough pavement. The rear A.P.C. careened into a three-point turn, disregarding several pedestrians that fell in its path. As it surged forward, two more blasts filled the street in front of it with the guts of buildings. The resulting avalanche blocked its path. The procession was trapped in the kill zone.

"Merciful Lord! It's the Demon!" Deacon Baker panicked and wet his priestly garb. Vice Deacon Robertson sent distress calls to local forces all around L.A. via the [Virtue-Net] and called for reports on what was happening. All he received were reports of chaos. Vice Deacon Robertson frantically scanned the carnage through the windows of the car. All around he saw Regime soldiers being picked off by sniper fire in the smoke and dust clouds. The two bodyguards in the front of the armored car kept their side arms ready for incursions. Deacon Baker started to hyperventilate after the car was strafed by automatic rifle fire.

"Would you shut the fuck up!" Vice Deacon Robertson scolded Baker who, by now, was sobbing like a child.

Robertson looked out the rear window and through the smoke and debris could make out figures engaged in hand-to-hand fighting. It was the soldiers from the rear A.P.C. fighting a lone figure clad in black. They attacked and he parried with what looked to be axes. The figure in black hooked a soldier around the ankle, dropping him to his back and then buried the other ax in the soldier's chest. Another soldier grabbed the Man in Black from behind, who reacted by hooking the ax blade behind the soldier's knee and jerked, severing tendons and veins. The soldier dropped to one knee. The Man in Black spun with the other ax and firmly planted it just below the soldier's left ear. He dropped. A third soldier rushed the Man in Black with bayonet point; he was dispatched by an ax thrown end-over-end to the face. Three remaining soldiers, still stunned by the explosions, prepared to aim and discharge their rifles at the Man in Black, who reached for a pistol on the ground and rapidly fire four shots, claiming two of the soldiers at center mass. The third soldier was put to rest with the Man in Black's remaining ax that lodged in the soldier's sternum with a quick throw.

By now the soldiers from the lead A.P.C. had freed themselves from their overturned vehicle and were charging to meet the Man in Black, all twenty of them. They were preparing a firing line when, suddenly, a hail of gunfire erupted from behind the Man in Black. Several of the soldiers were picked off. A chorus of cries and cheers reverberated through the ruined street. A mass of bodies surged forward at the soldiers; dirty men and women, armed with antique firearms, knives, and clubs. They absorbed a volley fired by the soldiers before they closed with the firing line, swallowing the soldiers like fire ants to prey.

The Man in Black approached the armored car with tomahawk in hand. Vice Deacon Robertson looked at him with horror as he began to hack at the bullet-proof glass with his tomahawk.

"You two! Get out and kill that bastard! Protect your Deacons!" he commanded while Deacon Baker tucked his head between his legs, sobbing. The two bodyguards in the front seat clad in black suits rushed out of the vehicle to engage the assailant. The suit from the passenger side pulled his pistol and discharged three rounds which struck the Man in Black center mass. He fell against the car back first and slid to the ground. The suited bodyguard approached the Man in Black to check his vitals. The driver maneuvered to join him. As he knelt over the Man in Black, he suddenly found a tomahawk lodged in the base of his neck, life's blood spilling out while he choked. The driver raised his gun to take a shot but was struck down by a sniper on a nearby roof. Vice Deacon Robertson realized they were now alone, with only the armor of the car protecting them. He watched the Man in Black pull something from a pouch, an explosive which was attached to the door, then the Man in Black rushed for cover.

"Get out! Get out! C'mon!" He tried to rouse Deacon Baker who looked like he was suffering a heart attack. Vice Deacon Robertson gave up on him and climbed over him with crushing weight. He opened the opposite side door and ran as fast as his hefty frame would allow toward an adjacent rubble pile. He didn't get but a few feet away before he was knocked to the ground by the shock wave from the detonation. He coughed and wheezed, trying to pick himself up off the ground. Vice Deacon Robertson was thrust back down into the debris by a boot to his backside. He shrieked, then he was pulled up by the collar of his robe. He looked up to see the Man in Black grasping him.

"Get your filthy, Apostate hands off me! I am a representative of the Lord on Earth!" Robertson blurted. The Man in Black said nothing. Then he grabbed the masked that shrouded his head and yanked it off. He revealed his true form.

"You! You're dead—" the Vice Deacon was interrupted, being drawn closer to the man's face.

"Behold a pale horse and his name that sat on it was Death and Hades followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the living creatures of the earth," Pale-Silence recited with nefarious vigor, eyes like hot coals piercing the core of Vice Deacon Robertson. His pointed teeth clicked threateningly with each syllable spoken.

"Oh God! Just kill me now!" Robertson beseeched. He had tears in his eyes and his hands were folded in submission.

"I am afraid your God has forsaken you. He has released you to my custody. And I will be sure to deliver you to the Lake of Fire one piece at a time!" He flashed a fiendish smile at the terrified cleric. Suddenly, a motorbike launched into the air by way of a pile of rubble. The bike touched down with a fishtailing skid, stopping just short of Pale-Silence and the Vice Deacon. The rider jumped off and threw the helmet to Pale-Silence then he restrained the Vice Deacon and threw a bag over his head. Pale-Silence mounted his Scarab and his comrade loaded the Vice Deacon on the back of the bike. The Scarab sped away through the haze and smoke to be lost in the chaos of the slums. The Apostate militia was left to clean up the last of the resistance.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

Rupert von Manstein had been raised up to the rank of Vice Deacon due to the misfortune suffered by the late Vice Deacon Robertson. In the last several months, pieces of Robertson's body had been found planted in front of Church and Regime buildings throughout Los Angeles. The Vice Deacon's body parts had usually been marked with a playing card decorated with a demonic crest and booby-trapped with high explosives which, once disturbed, detonated demolishing many buildings. This campaign of terror, led by the "Demon of Los Angeles" had required the attention of the newly-ordained Vice Deacon von Manstein. After several bloody skirmishes and a failed martial law order, it became apparent to von Manstein that Los Angeles was too heavily-populated to be pacified with his token force, so von Manstein switched tactics. He laid siege to L.A. itself. He oversaw the construction of a vast wall around the perimeter of the city, over the mountains and through the desert.

Vice Deacon von Manstein convinced the Arch-Deacon to lobby the President to send the New Megiddo Navy to form a blockade of the city by way of the Pacific. The President authorized this operation. von Manstein was sure that he would starve the insurgency into submission. But it did not come to be. As usual, it was the civilians that suffered in this conflict. Slum-dwellers starved to death in the thousands. It became apparent that the Apostate resistance was still getting food and supplies through the blockade somehow. As the siege continued, Regime support in the region plummeted and black market activity filled the void left by Regime merchants. Apostates became folk heroes. This became apparent to von Manstein, so after six months he lifted the blockade and pulled Regime forces back to the outskirts of L.A. leaving only a few outposts.

Most of the city of Los Angeles became a semi-autonomous Apostate stronghold. Vice Deacon von Manstein would regroup, bide his time, and swore to return to bring the "Demon" to justice. Soon this plan would need to be put on hold as new crises threatened the very fabric of New Megiddo.

_A SONG OF ASCENTS_

"Walk with me, children, let us gaze upon our heritage," President Schrubb urged his offspring Kate and Kier Schrubb to follow him through the gate.

"Dad, we have been here numerous times when we were kids," Kier Schrubb complained. He walked along with his father sluggishly, taking swigs from his flask and burning through a cigarette. Kate Schrubb walked in silence, listening to her father's sentimental tales. Two Rangers hurried ahead and unbarred the restored wooden gates to the New Megiddo, Texas heritage site.

"Both of you were too young back then to fully appreciate it. You two drove your mother nuts, God rest her soul," President Schrubb folded his hands in a brief prayer. "Now, if one you are to succeed me as President of New Megiddo, you must truly understand what Brigham Wainwright created here.—" the President's proselytizing was cut short by his son.

"Pop, I know this already. It was a paradise on Earth for the Faith and then later the Secular-Progressives tried to revise history by redubbing it Wainwright, Texas—" Kier was then cut off in turn by his father.

"Son, you only parrot your lessons. You do not _truly_ understand. Come," he said. Walking ahead of the group, he gestured for them to follow. Inquisitor Rodrigo hovered in the background, his hands clasping his lion-headed cane behind his back.

"This was the first structure that had been erected by Brigham at the site. It was a fortified church that offered a place of worship and defense. Later, when Brigham's flock gained a foothold here, they added other structures and the mighty palisade surrounding New Megiddo," President Schrubb recounted. He led the party into the church fortress. Boot-clad feet sounded against aged wooden planks, echoing through the hall. The structure had obviously been rebuilt in times past and embellished with extra-fine furniture. There were old, polymer-crafted mannequins dressed as pioneers and the Faithful dating to the early Nineteenth century. Many of these mannequins were in poor shape due to vandalism over the years. All of these elements created a spectacle designed to transport the viewer to different time period. The party approached the pulpit at the far side of the hall. Off to one side was a reenactment of Reverend Brigham Wainwright playing his piano, flanked by his many wives with his brood of offspring perched on the floor. All engaged in song. When the party drew near, a motion sensor detected them and cued a low-quality audio recording to play,

"Nearer, my God, to Thee, nearer to Thee!

E'en though it be a cross that raiseth me;

Still all my song shall be nearer, my God, to Thee."

The shrill voices of scores of children screeched out with obscene enthusiasm. President Schrubb threw his hands in the air and waved them to the tune like he was directing a choir of the departed. Kate sat with a blank expression while Kier furrowed his brow and smirked. The Schrubb twins were used to seeing their father go into fits of sentimentality. Hanging from the raised ceiling above the scene was a flag of the old Texas Republic and a map of the region dating from the period, a blue field with a single white star. The map depicted Mexico at its greatest territorial extent, represented in red, and the area of the breakaway Texas Republic represented by blue and red stripes. Also near the scene was a plaque displaying text about the story of the Texas Revolution. Among the obvious leaders like Sam Houston, it spoke of the efforts of Reverend Wainwright and the Church of New Megiddo's contributions.

"A masterful recreation, is it not? President Schrubb gloated. Kier approached the mannequin of Brigham Wainwright and looked it over closely.

"He's missing his nose and there's a pentagram carved into his forehead!" Kier announced, quite pleased with his find.

"Yes—yes. I will allocate extra funds for the repair of these blemishes," President Schrubb stated. He changed the subject, "The point being is that the Reverend and the Faith were catalysts for the Texas Revolution. His stratagem allowed the religiously oppressed in the old U.S. to come to Texas and worship freely. He was able to deliver the Promised Land to Virtuous!" he explained to indifferent expressions.

"Those Mexicans didn't like losing all that land, either," Kier added proudly.

"Yes—well, they were incapable of using the land the way God intended. We were destined to receive it. The point is much blood, sweat and tears went into shaping New Megiddo. A centuries-old struggle." It occurred to President Schrubb that he was not eliciting the reactions that he thought he would get. He changed tactics. " And lately it seems the tight ship that was New Megiddo has been springing leaks!" he yelled. Kate Schrubb thought she caught his drift and forced herself to sob quietly.

"My good friend and top government scientist, Martino Franco, has been kidnapped! This cannot stand! He is family," the President uttered, turning red as he spoke. He looked at Kate with pity as she increased the sorrowful display. Inquisitor Rodrigo approached and offered a handkerchief. She shot him a glance and he returned a slight smirk.

"Now, I gave each of you a government ministry. I want both of you to make locating Martino your top priority," the President demanded. He looked at Kate and Kier with eyes of fire. "Even more pressing is this news from Los Angeles! It's a bloody war zone. Two Deacons murdered—the whole city on the verge of breaking away! Inquisitor! This is L.O.V.E.'s problem. What will you do about it?" President Schrubb asked quite ferociously. President Schrubb began coughing and required a concentrated dose of oxygen from his tank. Inquisitor Rodrigo strolled casually up to the President.

"Fear not, my President. I will begin covert actions to retake L.A. post-haste," the Inquisitor offered. He patted the wheezing, old President on the back then walked away to inspect the various exhibits on display in the hall. Kate and Kier each grabbed one of President Schrubb's arms to support him.

"Come, father, we've had enough excitement for one day. Time to get you back to the Presidential suite," Kate offered, steadying her father. He nodded with agreement and the three Schrubbs exited the church. Inquisitor Rodrigo lingered for a few minutes more, absorbing the spectacle.

"Oh, the Schrubbs. They appear to have grown too big for their britches," he said in a low tone. He twirled his cane and slowly walked out of the building, leaving poor-quality audio of the children singing on loop.

_WHO WILL TREAD DOWN OUR FOES_

Slumming was not doing Evan any favors. He had lingered for another several weeks putzing around and trouble seemed to follow him everywhere since he started to carry Craig's old sword. Every gang and two-bit pusher wanted to test him now. Each time he had sent them scurrying away or laid them low, but the body-count was beginning to bring heat. If there was one thing that Evan had taken away from his time at the H.E.M.A. school, it was that he came to know discipline and when he didn't have it, he craved it. Hanging around in the watering holes and cruising for a tumble with local boys was not as fulfilling as it once was. He craved something more; a purpose. Craig had suggested enlisting with L.O.V.E., becoming a Ranger and putting his skills to work for New Megiddo, mostly as a way of self-preservation.

As Evan sat perched atop a pile of concrete and rebar, he polished the sword blade and sharpened the edges with a whetstone. He weighed his options. There was nothing stopping him from taking his pack and sword and wandering off into the Western Wasteland. He could sell himself as a trade caravan escort or security for homesteads, but maybe the structure and stability that joining L.O.V.E. provided would suit him better? One thing he knew for sure was that he couldn't keep doing what he was doing.He made the decision to seek out a L.O.V.E. outpost. He did not know the first place to look; they kept a low-profile.

Evan began his search by traveling to different districts of Santa Cruz to scour for signs of L.O.V.E. activity. The problem he was finding was that he was on foot and they were mobile. Vehicles in general were a hot commodity and most of the slum-dwellers relied upon beasts of burden or motorbikes for transport. After canvassing the slums, he did not detect much activity. He avoided the downtown Deaconess building because he did not want to be singled out as an Apostate by the Church.

On the third day of searching, he was on the verge of giving up. He walked along a rubble-strewn avenue that meandered up into the Santa Cruz Mountains beyond the outskirts of the slums. Evan hadn't realized he had wandered this far out. Then, a L.O.V.E. armored personnel carrier thundered by, nearly running him down. He had to roll out of the road. The A.P.C. kicked up dust behind it as it hit the unpaved road that led higher into the forested hills.

"Of course!" he thought. They would not be located in the city limits. He started into a jog up the sloping gravel road, intent on finding the L.O.V.E. outpost. As Evan made progress up the road, the thick forest closed in around him and the ambient noise of the slums faded away replaced with the sounds of crows calling out. He spied some trees had that had been split in two and others that had been riddled with bullet impacts and still others bore scorch marks. The road seemed to lead on forever and soon he found himself on the verge of giving up again, but as his luck would have it he then caught a glimpse of a spire and weather vane atop a structure obscured by the tree line. He knew that it had to be the L.O.V.E. outpost.

Evan slowed to a walk, relieved that he had found his quarry. Unexpectedly, he heard a low hum emanating from the treetops. He looked and gazed up at a flying object. He had seen Regime drones before and he knew that L.O.V.E. had detected him. The drone hovered in place, only turning to trace his movement. Then he heard a sound like a firecracker going off and felt a sharp pain in his shoulder.

"Shit!" he thought when he saw that he had been hit with a tranquilizer dart. He only remembered taking several more steps before the world went dark.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

When Evan awoke, he made a mental checklist of all the signs of a classic interrogation. His head was throbbing; check. He was blindfolded; check. His neural implant was being jammed, replaced by a prolonged sermon by the Reverend Wilhelm Wainwright; check. He felt his limbs restrained to a chair of some sort; check. He hoped that his captors would give him the opportunity to explain himself and to display his combat skills. He was jarred to alertness when he felt his face being slapped repeatedly.

"Wake up, you!" an angry voice yelled out, "You were out snooping where ya shouldn't have been!"

Evan struggled in his chair and he tried to say something, but all that came out was muffled groans. His blindfold was yanked off and finally he could see three Rangers standing over him, clad in their navy blue L.O.V.E. jumpsuits. Whenever Evan saw Rangers previously, they had donned their ballistic armor in the field, so this was a novel sight. The men that surrounded him looked like they were taking enhancement drugs judging by their overly developed muscles and jittery dispositions. One of the Rangers grabbed hold of Evan's head by his dreads and removed his gag.

"I'll ask you only once—what the hell were you doing skulking around our outpost? Are you an Apostate spy?" a Ranger with a goatee accused. The man seemed to be yearning for an excuse to beat Evan.

"Guys, relax. I came here to enlist. I want to join L.O.V.E.!" Evan confessed, giving a look to each man.

"Are you daft? You can't just enlist—we are hand-picked from the Regulars! Now you better offer something better or we'll be burying your corpse shortly," a stalky Ranger threatened.

"There's nothing more to it. I just want to join," Evan stated matter-of-factly.

"You come pissing around our base with this bloody sword. Where'd you get it?" the wiry Ranger asked. He held the point of the Claymore to Evan's throat.

"It was a gift from my instructor," Evan spoke the truth.

"Sure, I'll buy that. This would fetch a pretty penny on the black market! Cut him loose and stand him up! I want to carve a cross in his chest with this blade!" Two Rangers set upon Evan, cutting his bonds, standing him upright and pinning his arms behind him. The stocky Ranger held the Claymore resting upon his shoulder. He smiled with anticipation of bloodletting. The other two Rangers chuckled.

"Your mistake," Evan said softly. With one leg he pushed himself back against the chair which was bolted into the floor. The force with which he pushed backward was mighty. He sent the two Rangers slamming into the rear wall of the cell. The wind had been knocked out of them. Evan made a hammer fist and struck one Ranger in the throat. He immediately collapsed on his backside, wheezing. Evan pushed the other Ranger into the stocky Ranger who had his sword. He followed up by tackling both the men who became entangled upon each other. They smashed into the front wall of the cell with audible thuds. Evan sent a series of body blows into the midsection of the man who held his sword. The blows loosened his grip on the weapon. Evan disarmed him then brought the pummel down upon the Rangers skull with a crack. The Ranger dropped, out cold. The last Ranger attempted to pull himself to his feet, but Evan swung the blade and struck the man in the jaw with the flat of the blade which drained the fight out of him.

Evan looked at the one-way observation window installed in the side wall of the cell and brandished his sword when he spoke,

"Whoever is watching, I hope you took note that I just bested three of your Rangers! I came here to enlist, that's all I want," Evan said. He expected that someone had to have been impressed by his display of skill. He stood in silence, waiting for several moments. Then, suddenly, the cell door slid open and three more fully armed and equipped Rangers flooded into the room surrounding Evan.

"Drop the sword, now!" one demanded, aiming his automatic rifle.

"Okay, okay," Evan complied and laid the sword at his feet. Another man entered. He donned a handlebar mustache and was quite bulky. He stood with his hands folded behind his back.

"I'm Major Frank. I'm in charge of this outfit. Normally, I would have a prisoner who assaults my Rangers executed. But seeing as how you have brought a huge weakness to my attention by kicking the crap out of my crack troops, outnumbered at that, I am indebted. I'll see what I can work out with Intake." He gave Evan one last look and turned away," Get this man a bed and some food," he said and then was gone. Evan picked up his sword and followed the armored Rangers to a spare bunk.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

Major Frank had been successful in negotiating recruitment of Evan into the Rangers with his superior officers and so after a week of waiting at the Santa Cruz L.O.V.E. outpost he was put on an A.P.C. that would cross the continent and bring him to the capital, New Megiddo City. When Evan peered out the viewport as the A.P.C. entered the city limits, he was awed. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined that there were still cities of this size in New Megiddo. He had seen sky towers in downtown Santa Cruz and vast stretches of slums, but this city had towers as far as the eye could see. Many sleek vehicles could be seen on the highway. The sky was pockmarked with drones flying to and fro. The A.P.C. took an off-ramp and Evan saw a road sign that read "To New Megiddo Divinity Center". Then he saw the massive structures that made up the cross layout of the Divinity Center, the nervous system of New Megiddo. The most imposing and grandest buildings were the Tower of the One and the Church of New Megiddo Central Authority. Huge Gothic-style spires rose up above the city, not to be outdone by any other structure. The Tower of the One, being the Presidential Palace, was positioned at the heart of the Cross, the Central Authority at the head, and the two Regime ministry buildings, the Ministry of State Security, and the Ministry of Defense on the arms.

The A.P.C. Evan was aboard was heading to the Ministry of State Security building, which was headed up by the First Daughter, Kate Schrubb. M.O.S.S. oversaw the covert operational force, L.O.V.E., and it was headquartered in the sub-basement levels of the M.O.S.S. building. The A.P.C. approached the M.O.S.S. building and sped around the rear where a huge bay door groaned open to allow passage into its guts. Down the ramp, the A.P.C went into the depths. At last, the A.P.C. ground to a halt and the rear hydraulic ramp sprang to life, hissing as it descended. The recruits who had ridden in the passenger bay unbuckled their harnesses and jogged out of the A.P.C. They then fell in line for inspection. Evan stood at attention, but he couldn't help feel naked since his dreadlocks had been shaved off.

"Attention Recruits, Inquisitor Rodrigo is on the floor!" A Ranger that flanked the entrance to the vehicle bay shouted. The Inquisitor strode forth in full dress uniform. His L.O.V.E. beret clung to his head meticulously. The Inquisitor clutched his cane behind his back as he strolled down the line, sizing each man and woman up. Evan gazed at him from the corner of his eye; something was amiss about the man. Inquisitor Rodrigo stopped cold when he reached Evan's position in line. He turned abruptly and stared at Evan with emotionless eyes and a slight smirk appeared on his face.

"What is your name, recruit?" he asked.

"Evan, sir!" he snapped.

"Evan—what, recruit?" Rodrigo pressed.

"Just Evan, sir. I do not know my last name," he confessed.

"Not know your last name? How in God's name did you end up here? Don't answer," Rodrigo said, he gave him one last look up and down with a smirk, then continued his inspection.

_EPILOGUE_

The coroner's van, clad in black with a white cross enclosed in a circle logos blazoned on the sides, was parked crookedly at the curb outside the tenement building. Other emergency vehicles were present with L.E.D. lights projecting red and blue to interrupt the darkness. A crowd of onlookers had materialized to take in the macabre spectacle. A woman was perched on the rear of an emergency vehicle, her face in her hands. Two community peace officers consoled her. The stretcher drone that bore the body hovered out of the front entrance of the tenement, the black body bag zipped securely around the corpse. The stretcher drone was loaded into the coroner van.

Among the gaggle of spectators was a well-dressed man, clad in a beige overcoat and sporting overly-sculpted hair. He stood taking in the scene, casually smoking a cigarette. He watched the woman with the caramel complexion who was obviously distraught over losing a loved one.

"Yes—yes...what is the woman's name?" he spoke quietly to no one in particular. No one paid attention to the man talking to himself; there was too much drama playing out for entertainment-starved, working-class types to miss.

"Greta—Greta Sanchez you say? She has an impressive arrest record as a peace officer, you say?" he continued to ask himself questions about the grieving woman. He saw that a L.O.V.E. agent had approached the woman known as Greta and he had drawn something from his pocket holding it in front of her face. It looked to the man, at least from afar, like a stash of Database. The L.O.V.E. agent looked to be aggressively questioning her about the drugs. From her body language, he could see that Greta was disavowing the drugs. He watched as she handed her badge and gun over to one of the officers that previously had consoled her.

"Hey, can you tell me the name of the deceased? I need to make sure we are certain—" he stated. He was silent for a moment, exhaling some smoke, "Oh, yes, okay—Marco you say? You're sure?" he asked nervously. He kept his eyes on Greta—she seemed to be talking back to the L.O.V.E. agent. Then the two officers grabbed her and held her back from striking the agent. The agent put a finger in her face, said a few words, and then turned to walk away. Greta broke down crying once more.

"Alright! I am green-lighting the operation. Make sure you get the body before they begin the autopsy!" he raised his voice slightly, "Out," he remarked.

He gazed upon Greta one last time, "Hang in there," he said under his breath. He smashed his spent cigarette underfoot and turned away from the gawking crowd. He strolled down the block. He approached a sleek, red sports car. The driver's side door opened and the driver ran around the car to get the passenger-side door for the man.

"Sir," he offered. The well-dressed man nodded and seated himself. The driver slammed the door shut, jumped into the driver's seat, and started the car. The sports car fishtailed with tires peeling out, then shot down the street at an excess speed.
**Like What You Read?**

The story of New Megiddo continues in the novel, "The Apostates" by Lars Teeney. Available now where ebooks are sold!

**Acknowledgements:**

Debra Payne, Stephanie Buck, Clifton Hill, Jon Toler, Beta readers, Reviewers, and Critiquers! Also

anyone who purchased the novella!

**Inquires should be emailed to:**

Lars Teeney

apostates.feedback@gmail.com

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**About the author:**

Lars Teeney was born in Montana. After going to an art school in San Francisco, racking up insane student loans and working for years as a freelance designer for the start-up culture, he became burnt out. He abandoned the Bay Area for the Pacific North-west, where he could hike and bike to my heart's content. He has worked for a variety of technology companies and has a keen passion for politics, history, science and art.
