Killswitch Chronicles- The Complete Anthology

by G. R. Carter

  Calmly, she turned to Nicole. “Sorry we didn’t tell you about that before, but we didn’t think you’d mind.”

  Nicole stood mouth agape, struggling for words. She simply shook her head, “No…I mean, thank you, I think. I really shouldn’t let you arrest one of our citizens that way…but I guess under the circumstances…”

  Rebekah didn’t answer the question. Instead she provided another twist. “I understand you want to visit the Domicile? Since we’ve already come to an agreement, you’ve got a couple of hours before the memorial service begins. Bishop Hart is anxious to see you. He says it’s been too long since you last spoke.”

  *****

  Nicole knelt and prayed. Her knees rested on cushions folded down from the back of the pew in front, three rows from the front of the chapel. Seldom was anyone alone in the sanctuary of the Domicile, only a personal request from the Founder’s Office could accomplish such things. Prayer didn’t come easy just yet, it had been a long time since she’d done more than a quick thought here and there in the past few years. Just like anything else, the more out of practice one got, the more difficult it was to start back up. She fumbled with the string of beads in her hand, then started reading the card in her hand.

  "Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

  Blessed are they who mourn, for they shall be comforted.

  Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.

  Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied.

  Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.

  Blessed are the pure of heart, for they shall see God.

  Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God.

  Blessed are they who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."

  She said the Beatitudes again, and then again, then again. She became nearly trancelike, mind calm and heart content.

  A firm hand on her shoulder broke her stream of consciousness. “I understand you’re looking to get back on the path.”

  Nicole turned to see a man with a rugged face and a long beard. His eyes were bright in the stained-glass beauty of the Domicile, offset against the tan face of someone who spent a majority of his time outdoors. He knelt beside her, crossed himself and folded his hands. He said nothing more, waiting for Nicole to gain comfort with his presence.

  “Bishop Hart, I’ve been so far off for so long…how do I begin to get back?”

  He said nothing at first, keeping his eyes closed in silent conversation. “Are you familiar with why our altars have stone, water and wood on them?” he finally asked in a smooth bass.

  She shook her head.

  “Stone represents the Father, whom we refer to as the Creator. Stone is our best building material, but it can also break you if you try pushing against it too hard. The water represents the Spirit, which refreshes our soul just as water itself refreshes our body. When we’re baptized we’re sprinkled or immersed in water, and so our lives should be immersed in the Faith.” He reached over and grabbed her hand. “The wood…well, the wood represents Jesus, the Carpenter. He can rebuild even the most broken among us. He offered Himself to repair the relationship between humanity and the Creator. Do you think of yourself as bigger than the Carpenter Himself?”

  Nicole stammered, “Oh, well, no…I mean, of course not. It’s just that…”

  “You’ve done terrible things, caused people to be hurt and worse?” he interrupted.

  She nodded back.

  “Are you truly sorry for those things? Would you change them if you could?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, too bad. Because you can’t. Even something that’s rebuilt will bear the scars of previous damage. You cannot undo what’s been done by you or in your name.”

  She sat in shock for a moment. This wasn’t really going the way she thought it would.

  “I’m irredeemable then?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Bishop, I’ve never been more confused in my life.”

  His voice boomed in laughter. “The mystery of the faith! No sin greater than another, yet some are harder to forget and forgive. Don’t worry, none of us will ever truly understand until we’re with Him. Here’s the key, Nicole. If you’re looking for a silver bullet, ah, you’re going to fail miserably. There are no magical incantations to soothe your soul. Faith is a process. In all the time Father Steve and I have been leading the Unified Church we could probably count on one hand the number of times we witnessed a miraculous conversion…at least, one that stuck past the first hard time. Yet our faith grows because we’re quite pragmatic. We’re a people of the land, farmers at heart no matter our vocation. We see people till and plant and cultivate and harvest before you enjoy a single grain. Think of everything that attempts to destroy your crops. Birds eat the seed, disease tries to rot it, and insects and rodents chew the young plants. Sometimes floods, sometimes drought. Yet we work at it, don’t we? For if we shall not work, neither shall we eat. That’s our faith, you have to work at it for it to grow.”

  “Just seems like we’re running out of time.”

  “It took Jesus 33 years to fulfill his mission and He’s God’s Son! What makes you think you’ll get yours fulfilled this afternoon?” He was laughing again, but she took no offense this time.

  “My dear child, that’s why we have the Domicile, the Unified Church,” he continued. “The work is why we wear the Green and Silver together. This is not a journey you can take on your own, yet you alone must decide to take the journey. We can’t force you onto the path, we can only show you where others have trod.”

  “That’s the purpose of the beads, the saying of the Beatitudes over and over?” she asked.

  Bishop Hart nodded. “Yes, practice makes one good at one’s craft. That’s why our Buckle friends stop and say the Morning Prayer and the Evening Prayer together at the same time each day. Those without faith see it as a sign of weakness, a crutch for those too weak to face life alone. Yet it takes more courage to lay down your own interests, freeze your own will, and support others who face the same tribulations in life.”

  Nicole was trying not to cry. She was the leader of a million people, a nation with the only known functioning supercomputer on the planet, millions of square miles of territory, but she felt so small and alone here in flickering light. She looked up at the simple wooden cross hanging above the altar.

  “Just remember,” he said to her. “Alex and Bek come here asking the same questions. Phil Hamilton before them—did you know Julia Ruff still comes here whenever she can? They have their own chapels, of course, every Republic village and farm does. But sometimes it helps to come here to the center. Helps those in power to consider the network of countless souls all praying for the same thing.”

  “Which is what?” she asked with a wavering voice.

  “Redemption.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Northern Caliphate Territory

  North of the Illinois River

  The Day after Decoration Day

  Second after second passed slowly by. Flies, gnats, all kinds of creepy crawlers you couldn't see but only feel, worked to distract him. Iron-willed discipline fought with human nature, a distraction during his first missions; now they were a mere inconvenience. Months and years of field training mixed with long stretches of solitude to create a different type of creature. Not physically, of course—Shawnee Trackers still looked human despite a nearly inhuman tolerance of hunger and climate, making those outside the Brotherhood wonder quietly about their physiology. Their personality found them more comfortable here among the creatures of the night. Human nature, human comforts, had become an afterthought.

  Wasson of Saline was almost 300 miles from home, in a place he had never heard of before, being called to serve by the Founder himself. Outside of a few Brother Trackers he had briefly spoken with while in camp, he was a
mong friendly strangers here on the Republic’s northern border. Without question, the Legionnaires of the American Province treated him well. Wasson knew straight-laced military folks like the Americans looked at Trackers a little differently; grateful for their talents and help, but taken aback by the shaved head, scars and tattoos only slightly covered by buckskins daubed in camouflage patterns. He certainly didn’t mind the assignment. The stories of atrocities in the lands occupied by the Northern Caliphate were widespread, reaching even as far as Shawnee itself. Wasson figured most of the stories were lies, propaganda meant to get folks fired up and ready to fight, but speaking with the few refugees able to reach the safety of Red Hawk America changed his mind. The eyewitness accounts were even worse than the rumors.

  Wasson would do his duty either way—that was the way he was raised—though having a little hatred for your enemy helped smooth out the discomforts of the wild. His task was to gather any kind of information he could on what the jihadists were planning. He would find one of their scouting parties, track them, determine their tendencies and tasks, then eliminate all but one. The lone survivor was to be brought back for interrogation by the Red Hawks. All along the frontier his Brother Trackers were attempting the same mission. With any luck some of them would succeed.

  The price would be high; Trackers were rare, and it took a lifetime of training to perfect their craft. But information was needed urgently, making it worth the risk to place so many valuable assets in harm's way. Rumors of jihadist buildup here in no man's land had reached a fevered pitch after the attack of Mt. Vernon. For years now, a bloody stalemate had settled over the hundreds of miles of border between Caliphate forces and the spread-too-thin defense forces of the Republic. Raids and counter-raids took place weekly. Probing missions that accomplished little except casualties kept everyone on edge all the time. An all-out invasion from the north would happen someday, and the feeling was that time was running out. Planes and airships provided a certain level of intelligence, but the ground was where the real facts were gleaned. Republic spooks needed live assets to interrogate. As many as possible—a man being waterboarded might lie to make his torture stop, but if several said the same thing you could make a good guess at what was true. “Triangulation,” the Master Tracker called it.

  So here he was, lying in the cold dark, watching and waiting. Adversaries like he faced tonight were tough opponents. Rural men, mostly, forcibly converted to the jihadist religion of their overlords. These men seemed to know the woods—at least, three of the four knew the woods. The fourth member of any jihadist group was always a religious advisor, making sure recent converts held to the laws of sharia and didn’t try to escape. That rat he would leave for last, and hopefully get him the fifteen miles to his hidden canoe and back across the river into friendly territory. If the cleric couldn’t be convinced to come willingly, Wasson would conduct some infield interrogation to squeeze out as much as possible.

  Flickering light came into view just over the shallow stream in front of him. His prey had settled in for the evening, tired from their long day of marking trees for some unknown assignment. Flame glow from a small campfire flickered under a hanging pot. The reflection of the embers off the metal gave just enough light to make three figures visible, all huddled around. Warmth was at a premium this time of year, even for hardened men. Normal protocol would be to cold camp, but the cleric was probably getting sick of trying to sleep while shivering each night. Brief longings for his own fire crept into Wasson’s mind. In an instant he was back home, sitting on the wood floor beside his aunt while his uncle led the family in his favorite hymn. “Onward Christian Soldiers” stirred his heart, briefly bringing a little comfort into his cold and lonely hiding spot. Memories were all he was able to carry with him. Glimpses of a time before he took his Tracker name, before he gave his life to the cause.

  His mind re-centered, eyes searching out from the fire. There should be at least one sentry standing overwatch. If the scouts he faced were any good, and most of them were, they would have positioned a man about fifty yards away hiding in the dark. The outlier would be facing away from the fire to prevent night blindness. Wasson would deal with that one first, then turn his attention to the ones around the fire.

  There…in the moonlight, he noticed a tree limb move the wrong way. The night air was calm, not enough breeze to sway a large branch. There might be two sentries, but odds were against it. His briefing said these enemies sent their advance parties out in groups of four, and that’s all he had seen with this group. Wasson spent the last three days tracking this group, mentally recording every move and tactic. If his quarry knew he was there, they were excellent actors. Tonight was the night to find out for sure, time to make his move.

  Wasson began to crawl out of the shallow depression where he rested. He rose to a crouching position, balanced on the balls of his feet, took two full breaths and then stretched all the way up and leaned against a tree. He felt the blood pulse and circulate throughout his body as he breathed again, deep and measured. He handled his weapons of choice, two long blades sharpened to a hair. Both knives were perfect in balance and weight, his constant companions since presented to him by Governor Olsen himself the day he took his Tracker name and made the ceremonial sacrifice.

  He checked his revolver, feeling more than seeing that everything was set with the weapon. The ancient but spotless pistol was a last resort, to be used only if surrounded and left with no means of escape. Each Tracker knew to save the last bullet…capture was not an option.

  Moving like water between rocks, darting from tree to tree, his leather moccasins barely made a sound. One silent step at a time led him to the space between the fire and the sentry's post. Pause…steady…breathe… He listened for any sound of warning from where he knew the sentry to be. He was careful to keep his eyes away from the campfire to his left; even a brief glimpse would blind him to the details he needed.

  Now the tricky part. Sentry removal was an art form, at least if done correctly. The hilt of his bowie knife already displayed numerous notches, but most represented dead ditchers—bandits living out in the wildlands of his home country. Those creatures were crafty and dangerous enough; that's why the Governor of Grand Shawnee recruited and trained Trackers in the first place. But years had passed since ditchers held much capacity for strategic thought.

  Crack!

  Breathe deep, missed a dead branch. Slow a bit. More careful, keep breathing, be the dark and float…you don’t see me. He willed the man in the tree to look away. One arm, then one leg, another arm, then the other leg gracefully glided toward his target. Pause. Exhale. Hug the ground for a moment. A tiny rodent scurried ten feet away, movement registering in the corner of Wasson’s eye. A swoosh and a flash of feathers darted past, snatching the rodent in the viscous grip of talons and silently stealing the animal away. Good hunting, brother owl, thanks for the confidence. If the master of the night sky hadn’t sensed him, no chance of human detection, either.

  Wasson was close now, no more than ten yards away. Just about close enough to make it to the tree in a single bound. He searched to find the silhouette of something that didn’t match up with small oak’s outline. Even well-trained humans had to move occasionally, especially if they needed to keep their own limbs from going numb, just a simple shake out of an arm or a stretch of a leg. One could remain perfectly still for only so long, and if your focus was fifty yards out instead of within your own zone of vulnerability… Center, exhale, focus…wait for him to get uncomfortable and readjust…there!

  Wasson slowly moved to a crouch, coiling up like a leopard to strike. One final long slow deep breath and up he leapt, his vice-like hand reaching for the area where he knew the sentry’s head to be.

  The hand felt a familiar texture of human skin, stretched tight over the hard skull below. Still in motion, Wasson’s grasped the man’s face, making sure to keep the mouth covered. His unoccupied hand now flashed the dull-colored knife, and in an instant a lif
eless body slowly slouched to the ground guided by its killer’s arms.

  One down, time to move… He had to be quicker now. Luck of the battlefield sometimes caused a dead sentry’s friend to try and relieve him a little early, or bring him a drink of water. The best of their kind didn’t do that, they stayed true to discipline. But all it took was one man to act out of turn and a perfect plan was blown. Wasson was crouched and gliding now, head up, eyes up, shoulders down. Both hands gripped knives; he’d try to get one of the remaining scouts with each blade, by throw or thrust depending on spacing.

  Just a breeze, watchman. Just an animal, nothing to worry about, no need to look out here…

  The fire got closer and he could smell the wood smoke. Some sort of meat mixed into the aroma and made his stomach growl. Every few seconds a small pop from the flames threw sparks up, punctuating the low murmur of voices. They didn’t sound alarmed, so he paused to determine where each sat. He heard two distinctly different pitches…where was the third? Sleeping, relieving himself behind a tree? There…a clank of a metal cup against a tree. Probably about ten yards or so off to the right. Can I get him first? No, too close and that would leave two reaching for a weapon instead of one. Play the odds. The two voices go first in one motion, then circle the clanking noise. One more step, two more steps…

  “Digniin! Digniin! Get up, you swine!” a heavily accented voice shouted. Wasson didn’t need the translation to take the meaning. Immediately he launched a bounding step toward the voices. Just as he cleared the tall grass two men stood and wheeled around, staring straight at him. As if in slow motion, one reached back down for a weapon, but it was too late. Their death was already in midair, their last earthly vision a wolf’s snarl of unnaturally white teeth, contrasted by a blacked-out face in the firelight. Wasson’s blades each found their target almost simultaneously and he dropped his body in a roll, passing close enough to feel the singe of the fire. Loud flashes and reports of a revolver twenty yards away rang out, giving him the location of his last adversary. The shots were wild as the man tried to hit the terrifying specter filling his wide eyes.