Pure Conspiracy (The After Eden Series): The Genesis of World War III

by Austin Dragon

  He is offered a chair by staff but tells them he prefers to stand. The Watching Room is an enormous vid-cam surveillance center, row after row, station after station manned by security men and women in white office suits. Like the Tek World they fled, all Faither cities have the same surveillance systems of stationary vid-cams and drones for security.

  Niccolo glances at each monitor in view. Every inch of New Lerdo City is monitored in real-time, outside and in every building—even the hall of the main ten-thousand-seat church where people eagerly await Father Marcos to begin the special 7:30 a.m. services. People continue to gather who can't get inside the church or prefer to be outside and watch the services on the outside vid-screens. He notices the White Guardsmen (visible security) stationed at entrances and other key points, Lost Boys—and Lost Girls—in the crowds (semi-concealed security), and knows that there are many more undercover security personnel. He walks over to another set of monitor banks and sees the feed from the city's own drones.

  "Sir," says a man sitting closest to him. "Nothing will happen to the pope today. He survived many years against the cartels without us. Now he has us to see to his protection."

  Niccolo smiles and pats him on the shoulder. "I'm Sicilian. I can't help myself."

  "I'm Duranguese—People of the Scorpion. We're the same."

  They watch the Christening Ceremony begin on the monitors. At the front interior of the church are an army of parents waiting with their newborns. The stage has been modified to have its own pool along the entire width. Father Marcos appears on the stage from a side entrance. He is a clean-cut young man in his late thirties, dressed in an all white cassock with matching white sash, white kippot on his head, and a large golden cross around his neck on a chain. This Mexican "city boy" single-handedly created the Mexican Underground Railroad and saved Catholicism from cartel and government alike in the country to become its religious leader.

  He immediately greets the congregation with a humble, "Good morning, fellow children of God." He has never gotten used to it and doesn't care for it, but the crowd erupts in applause. After a few minutes, he raises his arms to settle down the people and says, "Let us pray." This day of baptism is also their annual Memorial of the Guardian Angels holiday.

  Father Marcos begins with ritual prayers, but his words in Spanish are far from rote. The emotion in his tone is genuine, as if he is uttering them for the first time. The Italian members of the congregation wear translator ear-set devices in their ears. When he finishes the official prayer service, a nun and deacon appear on either side of him as he motions to the families with their newborns to step onto the stage in front of the pool. The nun hands him his Bible.

  "Do we have any dignitaries in the congregation this morning?" Niccolo asks.

  "Yes," one of the Watchers answers. "The Governor and his family are here. Representatives from the Presidential Palace always attend—"

  "To spy," Niccolo interjects.

  "Of course, and we have representatives from three other states too."

  Father Marcos continues reading from his Bible before handing it back to the nun and stepping into the pool. The first line of families does the same—all dressed in their Sunday finest, shoes and all. The overhead speaker broadcasts his exchange with the families asking their names and where they are from. Father Marcos begins the baptisms, one-by-one, carefully taking the newborns from the parents in his arms, asking the parents their full name, repeating it as he blesses them, covering their nose and mouth as he gently submerges them beneath the water. He lifts them up and hands them back to their parents. Some of the babies immediately begin to cry afterward, others remain calm. The ceremony will take hours, and more nuns and deacons join him in the pool to help with the queue.

  8:15 a.m.

  A heavy-set man stumbles up the cobblestone road, sweating abnormally and out of breath. He looks up at the sun as he shields his eyes, and then stops his walk towards the church. People around him notice his state, but keep moving. The man touches his chest, goes down to one knee, and then falls to the ground. People immediately run to help him.

  9:11 a.m.

  They continue to watch the ceremony. Father Marcos may be only asking three simple questions of each family, but he does so in a way to sincerely engage with each one. Every spectator, whether in the church, outside watching from the monitors, or Niccolo and the others in the command center, are completely immersed in the ceremony.

  "Do you believe it's already been over ninety minutes, Mr. Niccolo?" a Watcher says to him.

  Niccolo nods. "I can almost recite the names of each baptized child myself."

  "Yes."

  "When will the Feast of the Guardian Angels begin?"

  "Noon, sir."

  Another hour passes before Father Marcos finishes his last baptism. He steps out of the pool, and instead of drying himself with the towel a deacon hands him, he drapes it around his neck. The nuns and the deacons step back and exit from the stage as cardinals and bishops—Mexican, other Spanish American, Italian, and African—dressed in red with white collars, take to the stage. They form a semi-circle around Father Marcos.

  The lead cardinal stands out in the center of the group—Cardinal Cassiano. He is a well-built man in his fifties. An imposing stature of six foot three, with perfectly tan skin, a clean-shaven face, and sophisticated, styled, graying hair. He seems more suited for the role of an actor or billionaire playboy than a church-man. But the Italian is one of the major movers-and-shakers within the Catholic universe. Archbishop Masai is the "General" of the Catholic Order—maintaining the victory and peace on the African continent against the Caliphate, but Cardinal Cassiano is called the "Chairman," by Catholic clergy—a reference to his insatiable love of the music of the twentieth-century actor and singer, Frank Sinatra, but really speaks to his status within the church hierarchy itself, before and after the Fall of Vatican Rome. He is the Administrator of the Catholic Order.

  The families are all back at their seats and no one in the congregation quite knows what is happening. More Catholic dignitaries take to the stage as two priests in black walk to Father Marcos with new clothing and help him into a new white and gold cassock.

  Cardinal Cassiano steps forward and says in Italian, "My fellow brothers and sisters in Christ, we in the Catholic Order have been carrying a heavy burden, this secret of ours. Today that burden will be lifted and our limbo will be at an end."

  Niccolo takes notice of a man and woman walking to him across the floor.

  "Mr. Niccolo," she says, "you wanted to be informed of any anomalies, no matter how small."

  "Yes."

  "A townsman on the way to the church collapsed."

  "From what?"

  "Heat exhaustion. He's being attended to by medics."

  "Can I see the feed?"

  "Yes, of course."

  They lead him to another set of monitor banks and on multiple screens are different angles of two medics attending to the man. He is sitting on the ground and a medic is getting him to drink more water. Another medic continues to read his bios with her hand scanner.

  "What is protocol in this situation?"

  "He'll be taken to the hospital."

  "If he wants to continue to the church?"

  "There's no room at all, so it will be at one of the external monitors. We'll allow it if he wants to."

  "Anything strange?"

  "Nothing at all. We're checking everything, his ID, calling his home, bio-scans, everything. On this day of all days, we're not interested in any anomalies either."

  "Did you notify the Continuum too?"

  "Yes, and Archbishop Masai personally."

  Suddenly all the lights of the Watching Room turn red and low sirens start bleeping. Everyone on the floors stands, looking up at the lights and at each other.

  "Keep at your posts!" floor wardens yell throughout the floor.

  Archbishop Masai's face appears on every screen. "This is a priority red alert. There is
a man suffering from apparent heat exhaustion being attended to by medics. He is not—I repeat—not to be allowed into the church's inside perimeter. Deadly force is sanctioned."

  10:16 a.m.

  The man is still somewhat winded. "I'm feeling better," the man says.

  "Are you sure, sir?" the female medic asks.

  "Yes. I'm going to go back home. It must have been something I ate."

  He stands to his feet, takes the bottle of water from the medic, turns, and starts back along the path he came.

  "Get better, sir," the male medic says.

  "You can watch the ceremony on your local broadcast channel at home," the female medic adds.

  "Thank you," he says, lifting his hand in the air, walking without turning to look at them.

  The medics gather their kits, start back to the church, and stop. White Guardsmen descend from the sky wearing rocket-packs with guns drawn. Multiple drones also appear, hovering in the sky.

  "Where is he?" one of the White Guardsman asks in Spanish with his Texas accent.

  "Who? The sick man? He went home."

  The Guardsmen jump and fly away to where she pointed. More Guardsmen appear in the sky and follow.

  People both inside the Church and those watching the monitors outside are overwhelmed by emotion, all taken by surprise. Father Marcos stands before a congregation on its feet, wildly applauding and cheering, and the cardinals and bishops stand behind him clapping. Marcos Agustin de Arango is the new pope—the pope for the Catholic Order all over the world to lead them into the next century. Pope Marcos I.

  Chapter Three: The Hand of the Five Cities of the Plain

  The Ant-Hill, Unknown Location, America

  9:03 a.m., 9 October 2096

  A secret desert location in the American Trog-land territories. A colossal underground facility that few Faithers know its true location, including the state it's in. Attendees are transported in by land or air in craft without any way to ascertain direction or distance.

  The Catholic Order has Mr. Blond and the White Guardsmen. The African Collective has the Catholic Masai Warriors. The Jewish Orders have Shoshana and the Wolf Pack. The Protestants have Sek, short for "security," and the Templars for their elite security.

  Sek is taller than average height with a slim, muscular build, brown eyes, and close-cropped hair. He always makes rounds before any high-level meeting, early in the morning and alone. It is his time for quiet reflection before the bustle of the day begins. But today is not just any high-level meeting—it is the full Continuum. The Protestants, Catholics, Jews, Mormons, Anabaptists, Shogun, Magi, and African Collective. The formal alliance of the 'superpowers' of the Faith World.

  The Continuum had the Ant-Hill built specifically for these types of meetings. Sek demanded it, feeling the round-robin approach of having random enclaves host the meetings was too dangerous, and continuous holo-meetings in Freespace was not the proper venue for the strategic meetings that the Faithers needed to happen on a fairly regular basis.

  Deeply devout himself, religiosity must always remain secondary to the safety of the people. March and April are the High Holy Days for Protestant Christians. September and October are the High Holy Days for Jews. Catholics and Mormons are split with April and December, as are the Amish and Mennonites. Shinto and Magi follow the Protestant days. Five months when no Continuum meetings happen, but past mid-October there is a window of availability. The Jewish Order's Simchat Torah is today and their members will arrive tomorrow.

  Continuum members began arriving yesterday, but the official meeting won't commence until tomorrow. He wishes they didn't need to have the Ant-Hill. The whole weight of the world is on his shoulders. He reflects on the days when he was chief of security for just one enclave, then all the sister enclaves in their region, until he moved up the security and intel ranks to his current position. All of the leadership in one place on this day and his responsibility, along with the Templars under his command, to keep every last man, woman, and child safe.

  He walks into the command center offices. No sooner does he appear when several of his staff see him and race to him. He holds up his hand.

  "May I get my coffee first?"

  His smiling assistant appears behind him. "Here you are, sir."

  He returns the smile as he takes the cup. Before they can barrage him, he holds up his hand again as he downs the coffee.

  "Okay, I'm ready for the onslaught now."

  "Sir, Mr. Niccolo of the Catholic Order is waiting in your office."

  "Okay."

  "Sir, the Mormon Order wants to have a private meeting with you first before their meeting with the Executive Quorum."

  "Okay. And?"

  "The Underground Railroad is waiting for you in your other office, sir."

  "Okay."

  "Sir, your son is waiting for you in your other private office."

  "My son? What happened?"

  "Nothing, sir. He wanted to come by and check on you."

  "Check on me?" Sek says with an amused surprise.

  The female staffer turns to the others. "His son had his Bar Barakah yesterday."

  The group congratulate him. Jews had bar-mitzvahs. Christians' coming of age ceremonies, or Bar Barakahs, had become as common ever since the Separatist Movement almost three decades ago. They are family ceremonies, partly religious, for teenage boys and girls to give meaning to their transition from childhood to adulthood. Always a significant life event, but because of preparation for the Continuum meeting, Sek could not attend. But his family had it recorded for him.

  "Okay. Son first. Mormons next. Railroad afterward. Mr. Niccolo last, since I know it will take the longest."

  10:28 a.m.

  Sek comes out of the office side by side with his son.

  "I'm going to hug you while I still have the chance. You're fifteen now, so soon you won't want to be in the same room as your mother and me."

  "Father, that's not true."

  He gives his son a hug and looks at him. "A man."

  "Oh, leave me alone."

  "What are you going to do today?"

  "I have my atmospheric engineering classes."

  "I don't know what that is, but I'm sure you're good at it. Off to class."

  "See you later, Father. You can wake me up if you get home before midnight."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yes. I don't need as much sleep as old-timers like you."

  "Old-timers? Always remember you're right behind us."

  His son laughs as he walks to a couple of other boys waiting.

  "Hi, Mr. Sek," says one of the boys, who's as tall as Sek.

  "Hi, J.J.," he responds. "Hi Daniel."

  "Hi, Mr. Sek."

  "Keep my son out of trouble."

  "He's a man now," J.J. says. "Men don't get in trouble, but just the same, don't tell my parents you saw me."

  Sek laughs as the boys wave and walk off.

  10:33 a.m.

  Sek walks into the private room. "Mr. Vincent."

  He shakes the senior Mormon leader's hand and hand of the woman with him. "Ms. River."

  "Mr. Sek," they both say.

  "Let's sit," he says to them.

  Vincent, like Archbishop Masai of the African Collective, is the "supreme general" of all civilian military and intel forces in the Mormon Order, reporting directly to their Fifteen Apostles—First Presidency and Quorum of Twelve Apostles. You would never know to look at him—calm composure, clean shaven, and brown hair. The brunette, River, one of his "generals," also looks like an average, everyday woman.

  The senior Mormon leaders skip the small talk to get to their issues.

  "I can relay the information to the Executive Board after the meeting," Sek says.

  "The Prophet wants to keep this off the public record due to its sensitive nature for us," Vincent says.

  "I completely understand, but if it's the wish of the Mormon Order to expunge any mention of them from the record—"


  "We want them expunged from the record and all Continuum databases. We want it to be as if they never existed. I'm sure you can appreciate this. It's unthinkable what happened—unprecedented."

  "The Protestant Order can easily empathize. We had 'fellow' Christians conspiring with Galerius—Boggs—against our own leaders, our entire people. You had one civil war over days. We had ours over several years."

  "Thank you," Vincent says. "That's why we approached your Order to help us."

  "I'll have the tek work done this week and contact you when it's finished."

  The Mormons nod, pleased.

  Continuum Meeting

  2:15 p.m., 10 October 2096

  The meeting hall for the full Continuum meeting is called Congress Hall. It looks more like a mini coliseum with a large, round, donut hole conference table under a massive dome. Large vid-screens line the walls, hovering above the floor. There is much activity prior to the meeting. Pages (teenage boys and girls) representing all the Orders run around making sure the final preparations are all complete—each one planning to be a representative for their Order when older.

  Lunch is over and the members make their way from the dining areas in the adjoining hall to Congress Hall. Leaders, assistants, aides, historical media, and observers enter, a million conversations going on at the same time.

  A few Arabic Christians are in debate with a few Amish and Mennonite elders.

  "...but now that you have formally joined the Medical Corps, and its success will only continue to grow, we believe it reintroduces the whole juxtaposition of pacifists in enclaves of warriors," one of the Arabic Christians says.

  "Pacifist atheists is one thing," the Mennonite man responds, "but a pacifist Believer is quite another. We are born into a world of spiritual war, so even we pacifists are warriors in a way. Non-resistance and not killing is a choice as a way to live. It is not an endorsement of the belief that the opposite is never necessary. The Bible does make that abundantly clear. Use the secular term conscientious objector if that helps. In every war, conscientious objectors played key roles in wars against evil. As are we."