"Of course. They've been hiding for a long time, but their flaw is that they must always come together to worship their false gods. We are not the Americans who let them live. Or the Russians who just exile them. We will terminate all of them. If fifty percent of the population are members or collaborators, then we kill fifty percent. It is why Great China is strong and will eventually inherit the earth."
"Yes, commander. This is the most amazing news we have ever heard. The woman stands to attention and is almost crying." She salutes him. "I am so honored to work under you, commander. After our president, you are the greatest man to ever live."
The man smiles. "You are a good soldier. You will be rewarded for your service and dedication. Call in the order."
"Yes, commander."
The woman runs back to her waiting black military vehicle behind his armored limo. She gets into the passenger side.
The window rolls back up. Inside the commander leans forward in his seat, about to say something to the driver. The SUV explodes!
The female soldier and the male soldier in the driver's seat sit motionless. A smirk appears on her face.
Trog-land, America
12:03 a.m., 26 October 2096
The convoy follows the lighted vehicle for hours. They don't know where they are going and there seems to be no end in sight. Stein is exhausted, but after the chewing out he gave everyone, he doesn't ask anyone to relieve him. Most of them are asleep anyway and no one is sitting in the driver compartment with him.
The steering wheel locks.
"We're here," Stein calls out.
The auto-drive takes control of the RV and instead of slowing down, speeds up. Everyone looks out the windows and one of them adjusts the controls to day-sight—night, but makes it look like daytime. They see nothing that indicates civilization, only wasteland.
"They'll probably drive us around for another four hours," one of them says.
Stein sighs and reclines the driver's seat back. He closes his eyes to sleep.
Murabba Presidential Palace, Riyadh, Saudi Arabia
11:49 a.m., 26 October 2096
The Emperor stares coldly at the men assembled before him. A bodyguard stands on either side of him, seated in his royal chair behind the desk.
"We think they have it, Supreme Excellency," one man says.
The look on the Emperor's face simmers with rage.
"Please don't kill us, Supreme Excellency. Let us redeem ourselves. We will find them."
"You tell me that the Apostates have seized not one, not five, but thirty weapon transports," the Emperor says. "Enough for them to be to a real army, an army against the Caliphate, and you grovel before me to talk of redemption."
"Excellency, this I-R-A will never get to use one of those weapons against the Empire."
"Supreme Excellency, may I put forth the idea that this I-R-A did not do this alone," another man says.
"Who?"
"The Americans, the CHINs, the Kurdish Separatists, Jews, Crusaders. Their treachery knows no bounds. Allah has many enemies. This I-R-A surely did not accomplish this feat alone. We must find and destroy their conspirators too."
"Interesting how all this is happening after the American president's announcement of the Sphere Program," the Emperor says.
Trog-land, America
7:23 a.m., 26 October 2096
Stein remembers waking up. He remembers the RV doors opening and Elliott waiting outside to greet them with another Goth-looking woman—probably Goth Lila. He has a faint memory of Pagan Paul with his stupid silver helmet. And then there was the stern-looking Asian man standing next to him.
Stein closes his eyes again and holds his temples with his hands.
"They drugged us," a voice says.
He can tell it's a particularly annoying Exile sitting next to him. He opens his eyes and they are all standing outside near a double dome-like structure, about five stories high. All around him are his fellow Exiles, in the same gray jumpsuits—he can't remember when they changed clothes.
From the side of the structure someone drives towards them in a golf cart—a common mode of transportation in enclaves. It is the same Asian man that was with Pagan Paul at their arrival. He is dressed in a black suit and they can see the outline of some tattoo at his neckline, a glimpse of his body tattoo.
He steps out of the cart, stands before them, and bows. He rises back up to address them.
Someone in the crowd breaks protocol. "I'd like to ask a question, before we officially get started," a sour-faced man says. "It is about the governmental structure of your enclave communities. We've been told they are secular, but I don't know if we believe that. Are they not actually quasi-theocracies?"
"If a government is only made up of the religious, then it is by definition a theocracy? Is that your definition of the word?"
"No, but—"
"Only the irreligious can run government?"
"No, I don't believe—"
"Why are you here then? Why do you wish to leave a world run by the irreligious you love for the religious you hate?"
"I don't hate anyone. And the irreligious you refer to are not atheists. They're Pagans. That's what we call them in America. Anti-religious, militant bigots. That's not atheists in the main. Their world is an atheocracy, to create a new word. A theocracy of militant atheists. We don't like that either."
"Faith World's government is civilian, pluralistic, and secular, run for the mutual protection of all the peoples of the Continuum. No religion, or lack thereof, is supreme. Theocracy in Judaism and Christianity almost destroyed them. Old Shinto Buddhism was wiped out because of it. Caliphate Islam will inevitably die because of theirs."
The Asian man walks to the man and slaps him. The man holds his face with a stunned look as the Yakuzu man glares at him.
"That is not for your question, but the impudence in speaking without permission." He turns from him to take his position in front of all the Exiles. "You may address me as Mr. Yang. Maybe one day you will have the distinction to know my real name. I do not care about your name. You have chosen to return to your people despite your dishonor. You dare call yourself Jew or Christian, despite your excommunication. Your God has seen fit to give you a second chance on this earth, for if it were up to Man, you would be left to die the deaths you deserve.
"This is your new home, for as long as we deem necessary. You will be judged based on your behavior, your actions, and your obedience from the moment you enter the structure. If you are deemed worthy of redemption and reunification, I will appear behind you. I will strike you to the ground and you will fall. I will offer my hand and pick you up. I will offer my hand in friendship and give you a white uniform to replace the disgusting gray one—the mark of your dishonor—that you wear now. You will be transported to Faith World and your life reborn will begin. All your past will never be spoken of again because that person and that life will have never existed.
"I outline the best scenario that could happen to you. If you make it, you will be turned over to Mr. Ying—the one you know as Pagan Paul. Mostly likely, however, there will be two other possibilities. The first likely possibility is that you will be left here. One day, myself, my staff, those deemed worthy will be gone. You will have been deemed unworthy. It will be your responsibility to make your way back to whatever metropolis you can find. It will be your responsibility to survive the trek, the elements, and Trog-land. You will most assuredly die. For that reason in your disgusting gray outfit in your outside right pocket is a pill of poison. Though Faithers frown on suicide and some expressly forbid it, you are such a fallen being that the normal rules that apply to people and animals do not apply to you. Your dishonor has rendered you such.
"The second likely possibility,"—Mr. Yang pulls a laser pistol from inside his suit jacket—"is that you will die right now."
The Exiles freeze.
"I will ask only one question. If it doesn't apply, begin walking to the structure, enter through t
he door, and your assessment begins. If you do so, but lie, I will shoot you dead. If it applies, you must stand where you are. Questions?"
The look on everyone's faces is of fear and nervousness.
A woman raises her hand slowly. "May I ask why we are being given a second chance? May I ask that?"
Mr. Yang ignores her. "We begin. My question: are you collaborating with the government?"
No one moves at first—everyone looks at one another.
"We all collaborated with the government," a male Exile says. "When? You have to tell us up until when."
Yang watches them quietly without moving, without answering.
"You have to be clear. I'm not going to...we're not going to risk our lives on trick questions."
"Just stop it," Stein yells. "It isn't a trick question. It is very clear. The answer is none of us can move. None of us are walking through the front door. We all did. The question does not indicate a when."
"Look at the lawyer brain work," a female Exile says. "Says you. Lawyers can't agree on the color of the sky. Why should we listen to you? Risk our lives based on what you say? You're probably a mole to get us killed."
Another man steps forward. "The question is moot. None of us collaborated. We were following the law! I'm tired of being called a collaborator and those Wolf Packers calling me a quisling in German. None of us collaborated. We were following the law. The government tells us to report people and places of worship who were using unsanctioned Torahs and Bibles—not using sanctioned Good Bibles, then we did it. We had to register with the government to work, to live our lives in the cities. Nothing wrong with that. I wasn't ashamed of my faith. I didn't care who knew about it. None of us collaborated. That's the trick of his question. Do we believe we were collaborators? The answer is no. Or, at least, I wasn't."
The man starts walking defiantly towards the structure. Soon others follow. Stein remains where he is, as do others. He realizes that half are walking to the structure and half are remaining behind. He feels nauseous and closes his eyes, and his legs feel wobbly. Half of them are going to die!
He hears the sounds. Most laser pistols are virtually silent, but others are purposely made to pop, more so for the wielder to know they fired. He opens his eyes slowly and, in the distance, he can see all the bodies cut down, lying on the ground. He looks at the others near him, their faces red, eyes red, tears streaming down some faces. They are all frozen like statues, not moving an inch.
This is real. It's all very real. The death is real!
Stein manages to look in the direction of Mr. Yang, but he is walking away from them.
"There is no buying your way back in," Yang says. "We will interrogate you and our mind-benders are not part psychologists. They are part exterminators. We determine if you are a spy beyond what you have already done. If so, we will kill you."
Yang continues to walk away until he reaches the door of the structure, passing through the bodies on the ground, and disappears inside. They all hear a noise behind them, but are afraid to look. A long multi-seater trolley drives up and stops in front of them. A lone woman sits in the driver's compartment. She stands and motions everyone onto the trolley. Everyone slowly gets on and sits, the seats facing towards the back.
Elliott did warn them—Faithers will do anything to ensure the protection of their people and their enclaves. Anything. The Grid-government instigated religious civil wars, the Fall of Jewish Israel, the Registration Initiatives, Project Purify, the reign of President T. Wilson. "Turn-the-other cheek" Faithers no longer exist in the world. Stein tries to hold his panic at bay. There is no way back now.
As the trolley does a 180-degree turn to drive the way it came, they can see the structure grow smaller and smaller as they drive away. The bodies are not visible anymore, but it is all they can think of. He imagines the cushy and happy reception the Hiddens and Lots will be given. But this is theirs. There is a sudden drop—the trolley is driving down into the ground. Down they go. All Stein can feel is the sense that they are going down to a dark Hell to be interrogated, tortured, and buried alive.
Metro Hub, Outer San Diego, America
5:33 a.m., 26 October 2096
Drones hover in the sky and storm trooper law enforcement patrol the area. To most, they instill a sense of security, but he isn't an average member of the public.
He doesn't enter the depot station with his one small suitcase, but walks around the perimeter of the building, all the way around to the rear to the outside Outlands Bus Station. Here one buys passage to go to any number of outer-tek-city stops. Tek-cities are sophisticated and urban; Outlands are rural and low-tek.
He sees his snake-bus, or at least, that's what everyone calls it; there must be a technical name—five buses linked together with the ability to bend around corners, but they are just as fast as any other auto-drive transportation, save the fast-track.
"ID," the bus attendant says to him.
The man hands him his national identification card with his picture. Five seven, brown hair, brown eyes, 180 pounds.
"Are my bags here?" the man asks.
"They are." The attendant puts the man's ID in his vest pocket. "Seat 43."
"Do I get that back?"
"Why? Do you plan to return?"
"It's a keepsake."
"Seat 43."
They stare at each other.
"Sir, they have trackers embedded in the cards."
"Which you can remove."
"Take it up with your elders when you arrive."
The man reluctantly boards the large bus, climbing up the stairs. The aisle seems to go back forever. People, already seated, watch him. He moves past the rows—men, women, children. At some point he stops making eye contact. He starts moving faster down the aisle and is relieved to finally see the number 43. He climbs in, but then jumps back up to check the overhead and under-chair compartments. All his suitcases are there. He sits back down.
He has never liked the terms. Hiddens are Faithers living in secret communities in the tek-cities. Lots looked like every other tek-dweller, hiding their religion, hiding in plain sight within the tek-cities. Six years ago, the Continuum repatriated a large group of Hiddens and Lots, but many, including him, did not take the Continuum up on its offer. But much can change in six years—like Russians dropping fission bombs on Faithers.
"What Order?" someone says, and he turns.
A silver-haired man is sitting in the adjacent seat across the aisle.
"Christian."
"Me too. Which sub-order?"
"Sub-order? Do they have sub-orders anymore?"
"You're right. No. All the Protestant Orders merging together. There was a time when there used to be thousands of different sub-orders. Kinda funny, don't you think? Christians merged into one and Jews have like a dozen sub-orders now."
"Yeah, I guess so. Family?"
The silver-haired man hesitates as his face grows sad. "Not anymore."
"I'm sorry."
"No, it's okay. Not your fault or mine."
"I'm reuniting with mine. We haven't seen each other for many years, but we kept in contact. They finally convinced me." He can see the man is not listening. "I'm sorry you have to leave family behind."
"They hate me, so this final separation is okay by me. The only thing they didn't do is turn me in. That's the only favor they ever granted me. So I had to tolerate the hate."
"We leave all that behind."
"Well, we're not there yet."
The bus departs when the final passenger boards; four hundred people—about half are families. As soon as the snake-bus gets to the main freeway, its speed kicks in and quickly reaches almost one hundred miles an hour.
The bus is driving itself with the bus attendant sitting in a middle seat at a front console, which rose from the floor as soon as he secured the side door and sat in his chair. To those passengers immediately behind him, the console display is blank, but the attendant is wearing clear glasses to see
the virtual screen.
A man sitting in the front seat gets up, steps forward, and crouches down near the attendant.
"Do we expect trouble?"
"Sir, please sit back in your seat with your family. We always expect trouble, even when we don't expect it."
The man returns to his seat with his wife and daughter.
"I hate this," he says to her. "This is why we never did this before. I feel like a criminal. It's like we're going off to a leper colony."
"What's a leper colony, Father?" the daughter asks.
"I'll tell you later."
"We talked about this for over a year," the wife says. "We want her raised in the faith."
"Don't put me in this," the daughter snaps. "I don't want to go. I'm okay with hiding. It's easy. Just don't say God or Jesus or Bible or Torah or any religious words. How is that hard?"
"You'll understand when you're older," her mother says.
"I am old enough. You have to turn everything into some big drama."
"Big drama? Is that what you think? Your father and I are tired of fighting with you. At least now we'll have an entire enclave to help us. We need that support, desperately. When you turn 18 you can go back to the tek-city you love so much, where they call you names for doing nothing more than existing."
"Maybe," her father says, "you'll return in time for them to try to put you in a concentration camp like they tried before. Or a leper colony. Can you figure out what that is now?"
The daughter covers her ears with her hands, upset.
A half-hour later, the bus attendant speaks into his mic-wand. "Attention. We are arriving. Follow the procedures you rehearsed in your exercises."
The snake-bus crosses the freeway threshold leaving the official tek-city behind and into the encircling outskirts of the Outlands. Most have seen it already, but they all look out the snake-bus's large windows. The buildings are far smaller and spread out, fewer visible signs of tek, no drones in the air, and large areas of dirt, brush, and nothing.
Who lives here? they think.
The passengers in the front seats notice there is not one car on their road. The bus barrels forward.
Pure Conspiracy (The After Eden Series): The Genesis of World War III Page 16
