by Lars Teeney
“Michael Adams, you have been found guilty of taking up arms against the one true Faith, killing Holy Warriors, and not surrendering to the will of God. Do you have anything to say before I pass sentence?” she announced.
“P-please, I beg—” the man was cut off.
“Apparently not! You should feel privileged to die like Christ on the Cross! Receive the Wounds!” she proclaimed.
“Recieve the Wounds of Christ!” the others dressed like her repeated and completed her line with zeal.Twomilitiamenapproached and dragged the condemned man away by the arms. He pleaded the entire way out of the sanctum. The woman in the throne glared back at Ayane.
“The Lord’s judgement will be postponed for a spell. Please escort those awaiting sentencing out of the sanctum!” With that announcement the militiamen barked commands for the prisoners to file out of the church, shivering and shuffling out into the night.
“You, Prelate, come forward,” the woman commanded. Ayane, not used to being ordered, kept a stern face as she approached the throne.
“I am no longer a Prelate of the Church of New Megiddo,” she stated calmly. Ayane bowed slightly, “I assume you are of the Societatum Pentagram?” Ayane said.
“Yes, we are who you seek. I am Monsignor Francis of the Order, and these are my Friars. This is Friar Fabian,” Monsignor Francis gestured toward the other veiled woman, who said nothing, “These are Friar Pius and Friar Martin,” she introduced the two men, who nodded their heads ever so slightly.
“I am Ayane Inoguchi, last of a long line of Japanese Christians who have served for a thousand years as prized assassins and warriors to rulers the World over,” Ayane proclaimed was some melodrama.
“Impressive, Ayane, tell me, why are you not out continuing your crusade against the Apostates who succeeded in destroying your Church and government?” Monsignor Francis asked with some suspicion in her voice.
“What I say may seem counter-intuitive, but as wicked as the Apostates are, the Church that which I served was more wicked because they were hypocrites. They did not truly serve the God they claimed to. So I allowed them to be stricken down. By my own hand I crucified their Arch-Deacon in the manner of your own Order,” Ayane announced, “It is known that your own Order failed to destroy the Apostates. Why is this?” Ayane probed. Monsignor Francis developed a frown on her brow, clearly annoyed by the question.
“It was clearly not the Lord’s will for the Apostates to have been destroyed during our battle in La Chorrera. If what you say is true, that New Megiddo was wicked then our defeat was part of the Lord’s plan to use these Apostates to tear down the walls of your modern day ‘Sodom’. Unforeseen circumstances had presented itself, betrayal, temptation, and greed, that led to our failure,” the Monsignor looked up at the Friar Fabian when she said this, who just stared straight ahead, remaining silent.
“Perhaps, now the Lord is presenting us with the opportunity to redeem ourselves before Him. Now that New Megiddo is no more, it would seem that we are free to bring the rest of the enemies of the Faith to justice,” Ayane suggested.
“Agreed, this seems to be what God is trying to tell us. As you see there are only four members currently. The Societatum Pentagram can only operate correctly when we represent all Five Wounds of Christ! But, only the best can join our Order. We have an opening for the Left Foot Wound of Christ. I assume that you have come to join our Order?” Monsignor Francis explained.
“Yes, that is what I seek,” Ayne confessed.
“Well, judging by the looks of things, it appears that you have suffered enough for your faith, not like another member of the Order who I had to convince that the Wounds are a virtue!” Monsignor Francis shot a sideways glance at Friar Fabian, who remained silent and stiff. Ayane Inoguchi had indeed suffered plenty for her Faith, and the wounds she had sustained fighting the Apostates were on display, a missing left hand, a half-burned face, and scars galore. And, even before these wounds had been sustained, there was the emotional scarring she endured: the death of her parents at an early age, and the tainted affections and manipulation of the Arch-Deacon von Manstein. She surmised that she had suffered more than any member of this Order.
“It is true, I have suffered for the Lord,” was all she said.
“Very well. You seem to be more capable than Friar Fabian here, and I feel she would be more fitting as the Left Foot! I shall install you in the Order as Right Hand Wound of Christ. Welcome to the Soceitatum Pentagram, Ayane Inoguchi. You may know that you must take up the mantle of a Sacred Name, and relinquish your old identity!” Monsignor Francis explained.
“So be it,” Ayane said calmly.
“Very well!” Monsignor Francis paused and then activated her retinal H.U.D. to retrieve a file stored within her neural implant: a list of ancient Popes of the Catholic Religion was displayed, she scrolled through the list, “Let’s see, ah, yes, here we are—Anastasias—you will be known as Friar Anastasias from this day forward!” Monsignor Francis proclaimed. Friar Fabian offered one shift of her eyes, and one blink but other than that showed no hints of true feeling.
“Fine. Anastasias it is. I must ask you, though, what is it that you hope to accomplish here in New Megiddo?” Ayane, now Friar Anastasias, inquired.
“As you say, the Church and Regime of New Megiddo have fallen. We have come to the ancient seat of power of the Church of New Megiddo, to claim our right as its spiritual successor. Here I vow to not let New Megiddo become a secular power run by Godless heathens. As my order has done here, we shall conquer our way to New Megiddo City and beyond to secure this land for God!” Monsignor Francis revealed her plan.
“Interesting. How is that you were able to lay waste to such a major military base?” Friar Anastasias asked.
“I must admit, that the Lord provided us with a great opportunity. The bulk of ‘Remnant Regime’ forces had struck out west, to apparently meet a Chinese invasion of the West Coast, and to reconquer California. We waited until they were gone, and then destroyed the token force that was left behind. Now we possess quite the arsenal from seized stores,” Monsignor Francis explained. Friar Anastasias nodded in approval.
“I am impressed,” Friar Anastasias said.
“Would you like to hear something peculiar?” the Monsignor asked quite suddenly. Ayane just nodded, affirmatively.
“This fortified church marked the spot where, in the late 1820s, Brigham Wainwright gave up his plantation and slaves in Virginia, after claiming God had told him to do so, established his Church. Not the first false prophet ever. Anyhow, this is the exact spot that he claimed God told him to build his new Church. This is where it all began. The history is written all over the plaques in this museum. It even states that Reverend Brigham’s tomb is under this throne, but, when I had my men enter the tomb to find his remains, there was nothing interred. No signs of grave-robbers, everything in order. What do you make of that?” the Monsignor posed the question.
“Perhaps, he has been resurrected and walks the Earth like Jesus did?” Ayane made the jest. The Monsignor made no comment or laugh to indicate whether she was amused or not.
“Yes, doubtful. I believe that there still remains a significant group of Believers who removed his remains ahead of our advance,” she surmised.
“In their position I probably would have done the same thing,” Ayane confessed.
“Are you in their position?” the Monsignor asked suspiciously. Ayane gave her a puzzled look.
“Let me clarify—do you still follow the false faith of the Church of New Megiddo,” the Monsignor asked while leaning forward.
“No, of course not. I have renounced that belief. I only wish to serve God,” Ayane said coldly. The Monsignor was silent for a moment, then seemed satisfied with Ayane’s answer.
“Friar Pius! Please show our newest member to her quarters, also please furnish her with Order garb. The Right Hand must
look the part,” Monsignor Francis proclaimed, “Now then, corral those wretches back into the sanctum! I would like to finish doling out judgement before supper!” the Monsignor ordered. The frightened rabble were herded back into the Church to take their seats among the pews, awaiting judgement.
⍟ ⍟ ⍟
Upon leaving Philadelphia, Evan Nubia and Consuela Grajales had made good time riding the motorbikes down vast stretches of empty highway. Driving down the old route 95 South, they were mindful of the wreckage and potholes that plagued the route. While making a pit stop at a trading post outside a place called White Marsh they had been warned by the shopkeeper to stay clear of Baltimore. He had explained that with the fall of the Regime, black market cartels were vying for power there. He went on to say that the Barksdale Syndicate had enjoyed a ‘sweetheart’ deal with the Regime, which allowed them to operate with impunity. But, now rivals had smelled blood without the protection of the Regime. The city was now a war zone between rival cartels. So, Evan and Consuela elected to make an end run around the city, travelling thirty miles out of the way, using route 695.
Once they had cleared Baltimore they had closed the distance to the outskirts of the old capital, New Megiddo City. They stopped to observe at a place called Rock Creek Park, to get a commanding view of what was left. What was left of the city was not much as all. As Eva looked out to what stood between him and the Potomac River he was shocked and awed. Hardly a structure was intact. He could make where once stood the Divinity Center, the heart of the government of New Megiddo. He recognized the bottom half of the Ministry of State Security building, where he had trained as a Law of Virtue Enforcement Ranger. The top half had been torn off like a child’s toy tied to a firecracker. Gone too, was the White House and the conjoining Tower of the One, which had been the epicenter of the blast. All that was left was a humongous crater, and scorch marks that emanated out from it. This had been confirmation enough that the nerve center of the Regime was gone. Consuela turned away from the hellish scene and offered a prayer to God, for the souls that perished here. She couldn’t help but feel complicit in this nuclear holocaust.
“Do you think we did the right thing, Evan, trading these lives for the masses?” Consuela asked him.
“I only hope so, Consuela. We had to at least try,” was all he could offer.
“I must go home, soon, Evan. My family waits for me,” she told him.
“I know. There are ships you can hire on the Chesapeake Bay. Let’s go get you one. I have seen enough here, and it’s probably not a good idea to stick around,” he said.
“Agreed, let‘s leave this accursed place,” she confirmed. They kickstarted their motorbikes and sped off into the night, leaving the spirits of the dead to haunt the capital that had served two empires.
⍟ ⍟ ⍟
THE SEA IS NOT FULL
Greta stood on a pier overlooking the English Channel at the French Port of Le Havre. The cold air and choppy waters were a welcome change from the climate of America. Where America had become dryer and parched, Europe had grown colder and wetter. Indeed, the leaders of West Europa were afraid of a new Ice Age manifesting over the land. But, these were all trivial matters compared to what was in front of Greta. She awaited the return of the combined Neo Railroad and Apostate fleet. the Port Authority of Le Havre had told here that the fleet was an hour out to sea. She also anticipated Jaspar Wynham, who was aboard a ferry returning from England, where he had business, leveraging his stake in what was left of Wynham Industries assets.
As she stood taking the ambient noise of the sea, Craig a Briuis approached from behind, interrupting her solace.
“Oh, hello, Craig,” she greeted.
“Morning, lass! I suppose we will set sail tomorrow, yes?” Craig asked, anxious to reach America.
“Correct, assuming all goes well with the refueling and resupply,” she replied cautiously. She didn’t want to make any promises she couldn’t keep, especially to this man.
“Great! It has been too long. I want to see what has changed since I’ve been gone,” he said.
“I wouldn’t be so keen to return. I’ve heard many reports of chaos,” Greta warned him.
“Greta, if you knew me better, you’d know my kind thrives on chaos,” he confessed. She had seen her own share of war and chaos, but something told her that this man had seen and done things that she did not want to know about. They stood silently for a time, listening to the seabird’s calls and the waves break against the seawalls. Then out of the mist, they saw a ship approaching the port. It was a ferry, and Greta assumed Jaspar was aboard.
“Looks like our comrade has arrived,” she said. Craig gazed at the ferry and nodded.
⍟ ⍟ ⍟
The passengers had shuffled off the ferry, some were commuters who worked in France, some were holiday-makers, others were immigrants looking for a better life than what they had in Britain. Since they were all citizens of West Europa they were free to move about, not restricted by borders. And still, some had come to receive the neural implant surgery to join in on the party. Paris had become a hub in [Euro-Net] proliferation, thanks to Simon Schrubb and the Neo Railroad.
Greta soon laid eyes upon a familiar face, Jaspar Wynham, who walked across the gangplank and onto the pier.
“Jaspar! Good to see you again! How was your stay in England?” Greta embraced him. He dropped his pack to the pavement and shifted his weight.
“Ahh, I am glad it’s over. There’s so much reactionary fear going on right now in European capitals. London is filled with ‘hawks’ that want to launch a preemptive invasion of New—America. I was able to buy us some time to restore order without European intervention, but it cost Wynham Industries some of the most valuable product patents,” Jaspar explained.
“You bribed English politicians with weapon designs?” Greta asked with shock in her voice.
“Yep, it never fails to placate the hawks—at least for a little while,” he said with a smirk and a sigh.
“At least you got the British off our backs for the time being—the same can’t be said for the French and North Africans. But, Maybe the British can get them to lay off,” Greta theorized.
“I’ll reach out the the British Ambassador and see if he can’t convince them to give us time,” Jaspar sighed.
“Thank you for doing what you can to buy us time. Craig tells me we already have to worry about China’s army invading, if we keep the Europeans out of it, perhaps we can avert another World war,” Greta said while trying to not imagine the worst-case scenario.
“Anyhow, I take it my mother hasn’t arrived yet?” Jaspar asked, eager to change the subject.
“Nope, still waiting,” she answered.
“Any chance we can get off this pier and—hey, I don’t think we’ve met. Who are you?” Jaspar asked as he had noticed Craig.
“Ah yes. Craig a Biuis, pleasure!” Craig said and put out a hand to shake. They shook.
“Jaspar Wynham. Good to meet you,” he said.
“Aye, I knew your father once, long ago. He was a young punk back then, and he ruined my life!” Craig blurted quite unexpectedly. Jaspar was taken aback in confusion.
“Come again, sir?” he said.
“Not to worry, son. Your father helped to set me on a certain path when I was at my darkest hour. It’s a long story,” Craig explained.
“Okay—well, I would like to hear that story soon!” Jaspar exclaimed.
“You betcha. We’ll be at sea soon. Buy the drinks, I’ll tell ya everything,” Craig said, slapping Jaspar’s back with vigor.
“Deal. Let’s get something to eat.” With that suggestion, the trio left the dock and headed to a seaside cafe for refreshments.
⍟ ⍟ ⍟
The trio found a small seafood cafe on the waterfront called, “Filets Vides”. The menu was quite small. On offer were quite a few mollusk and crustacean dishes but the only fish on offer were cod, and farm-raised salmon. Th
e name of the cafe did seem to say it all, the bounty of the sea had long ago been extinguished, due to overfishing, pollution, agricultural runoff from land, and the general warming of the ocean’s temperature. There were some species that thrived in these conditions, for instance, some species of jellyfish had gained prominence on menus in many countries. Seafood had never been a favorite of Greta’s, she only agreed to accompany Jaspar because he had been hungry.
Greta noticed that Craig had ordered the English-style fish and chips, so she followed suit. Jaspar, despite his grit, had obviously been raised to expect the finer things in life. Also, he assumed control of what was left of his father’s company, Wynham Industry, which still owned vast wealth and assets, so he had the money still spend on a nice meal. He ordered a steak and lobster combination meal. Soon their food had been delivered and they filled their hungry bellies.
⍟ ⍟ ⍟
After consuming a mid-day meal of farm-raised seafood, and finding the fare substandard, but knowing that seafood was far too scarce in this day and age to be picky, Greta, Craig, and Jaspar received an alert via their neural implants that the Port Authority had announced the arrival of the Neo Railroad and Apostate fleet. The trio exited the cafe and walked back down toward the pier to watch the mighty fleet steam into port. Soon, the massive passenger liners that had once ferried tourists all over the world as part of the Bilsby Realm fleet, now harboring refugees fleeing from that country rather than merely vacationing, came into view. The battleships of the Apostate fleet were dwarfed in comparison. The trio watched as the ships maneuvered to take their places along the kilometers-long piers of the artificially protected port. It was at that moment that Greta had noticed something peculiar, there should have been four Bilsby passenger liners and currently there were only three.
