Lazarus Rising

by David Sherman

  "Go on."

  "Well, you see, my leader, the art consists in doing this so skillfully that everyone will be convinced that the fact is real, the process necessary, the necessity correct, and so on! My leader, all propaganda must be popular and its intellectual level must be adjusted to the most limited intelligence among us. The greater the masses it is intended to reach, the lower its purely intellectual level will have to be. The more modest it is, the more exclusively it takes into consideration the emotions of the masses, and then the more effective it will be!"

  De Tomas smiled. "‘The art of propaganda lies in understanding the emotional ideas of the great masses and finding, through a psychologically correct form, the way to the attention and thence to the heart of the broad masses.’ Does that sum it up, Mr. Minister?" De Tomas was grinning broadly now.

  "Yes! Yes, my leader! That is it! Are those your words, my leader? Brilliant!"

  "No, Mr. Minister, not mine. I'm quoting a past master of the art. But there we have it, eh? How did you learn so much about the art of propaganda?"

  Oldhouse shrugged. "I was a preacher," he said, and laughed.

  "Your plan is approved, Mr. Propaganda Minister. I want you next to start building the morale of the army. See me in, say, a week's time, with a plan to achieve that end. I might suggest, among other things which I think your fertile mind will come up with, entertainments for the troops in the field, variety shows, things like that."

  Grinning happily, Oldhouse gathered up his posters. "Yes, my leader! You will be delighted to know that my staff is already working on that project! I have in fact recruited some of the finest dancers in the world to entertain the men!"

  De Tomas glanced at the time. He was running late for the reception. No matter, Oldhouse's ingenious poster program had put him in an excellent mood. "You will accompany me now to the reception," de Tomas said. "If you please, Mr. Minister, wait for me in the outer office and we'll go down together."

  Oldhouse, still grinning broadly, bowed and left.

  The reception was being held in the Great Hall of Wayvelsberg Castle, in honor of the members of the Haven Women's Auxiliary, the largest chapter of the organization on Kingdom. De Tomas had ordered the hall to be redecorated for this purpose, to dispel the somber atmosphere that usually obtained there in favor of lots of natural light and an abundance of flowers. Even the imposing stature of Heinrich the Fowler had been garlanded in fresh bouquets. This was to be an informal affair, no great speeches, just the Leader himself, relaxed and congenial, circulating among the dames and matrons, many of whom had come from afar just to attend their leader on that occasion.

  Herten Gorman was already there when de Tomas and Minister Oldhouse stepped out of the elevators. Immediately, the guests ceased their conversations and turned their attention to the Leader as he walked amiably through the little groups of chatting women, kissing hands here, bowing there, making small talk, letting the women see him up close. Wet-eyed middle-aged matrons, their cheeks flushed with joy, listened attentively to every word their leader spoke. Many begged for his autograph. Several of the ladies actually swooned and had to be dragged off into corners to recover their composure. Enlisted men of the Special Group circulated among the crowd, offering serving trays laden with drinks and hors d'oeuvres. Oldhouse excused himself and circulated among the members of the media who had been invited.

  At one point in their voyage between clusters of admiring females, de Tomas turned to Gorman and whispered, "Do any of these bitches have daughters I might be interested in?"

  "Possibly, my leader. Shall I make inquiries?"

  "Of course, you idiot!" de Tomas hissed. He couldn't believe Gorman hadn't already done that simple thing. You want a good candidate for a Great Man's consort, go to society's elite.

  Gorman's ears reddened. De Tomas had lately taken to insulting him too often for the Deputy Leader's satisfaction. He was tiring of being his leader's pimp. He bit back a sharp response. "I shall do so at once, my leader. Surely some of the families represented here have daughters who'd be a credit to you, sir."

  Several large-busted ladies in their fifties rushed up to de Tomas. "Ohhh," one gushed, "I did so much love your speech at the awards ceremony, my leader!" Another said, "I was so honored to receive my Mother's Cross in Silver, my leader! Thank you and God bless you!" Another: "My daughter simply worships the ground you walk on, my leader! We pray for you every night!"

  "Madame, I do so sincerely appreciate your thoughts," de Tomas said to the last speaker, "and would you convey to your daughter my best wishes for her future happiness? You understand, ladies," he snatched a glass of wine from a passing server, "that the Lord's blessing is all I wish for the work I am trying to do for the good of our people."

  Another woman rushed into de Tomas's presence. "My leader! My daughter is here, in the Great Hall! It would be such an honor if you would speak to her!"

  De Tomas bowed gracefully. "Take us to see the dear child, then." He held out his arm and, totally enchanted, radiant with joy, the matron accepted it. She could already see herself in the society pages. She floated across the hall, the Leader of all the people of Kingdom at her side, and called a young lady away from a cluster of young women admiring an officer of the Special Group. The officer came to rigid attention as de Tomas approached, and the girl curtsied respectfully before the Great Man.

  "Her name is Joy," the girl's mother announced breathlessly. The girl was fat, with a bad complexion.

  Taking the girl by her elbow, de Tomas gently brushed his lips over the back of her hand as he murmured, "What a joy, miss." Joy almost fainted on the spot. "Your mother tells me wonderful things about you. All you young people," he took in the group of girls who'd been talking to the SG man, "are the hope and the future of Kingdom. Well," he turned back to Joy and her mother, "I must spread my charm about, ladies." He bowed and, taking Gorman by the elbow, steered him toward another group. Behind him the ladies stood transfixed, following de Tomas with their eyes.

  "Shall I arrange for Miss Joy to have a private interview, my leader?" Gorman asked in a whisper. Inwardly he smiled. That'll teach him, he thought.

  De Tomas looked up at his deputy sharply. Does this idiot really mean that? he wondered. "I was thinking, Herten, she might prove just the girl for you. Find me young ladies whose faces won't turn into a pustule pie whenever they eat a candy bar. Understood? God's guts, you know what I want, Herten! You keep putting me off and I'll just grab that little doxy of yours and fuck her ears off."

  Herten almost gasped outright at the remark. Why that sonofabitch! he thought, but he said, "What is mine is yours, my leader. I shall find you the woman of your dreams. It is just that your requirements are difficult to fill."

  But de Tomas had already moved off to talk to another group. Herten stood looking after him, thinking, You bastard, don't forget you're as mortal as the next man. Outwardly, however, he remained the Great Man's calm and obedient servant.

  "Your position here is, ah, let's say, delicate, Sergeant Raipur," Bass said. "You people attacked us without provocation, and you personally killed one of our young men. And now we know that it was your outfit that wiped out Miss Emwanna's people. What in the hell are you people up to?"

  They were sitting in the back of the cave entrance. Emwanna had gone to fetch some food and drink for Raipur, who rubbed his wrists. "I did what I could to stop the slaughter of the savages," he said, "but when the acolyte"—he shook his head—"the lieutenant gave the order to open fire, well, I couldn't stop the men." He shrugged helplessly.

  "I know, I know, it happens. But why did you attack us here?"

  "We thought demons were here, and when I saw it was men shooting at us, I shot back. I did what I'm trained to do."

  "You could have buttoned up and told the vehicle behind you we're men, not devils. You could've told your officer. We could've gotten a cease-fire."

  Raipur shook his head. "Our communications system is down and I guess the comma
nder of the vehicle behind me only saw the acid guns in operation. Believe me, we know what those things can do."

  Bass nodded. "What can you tell me about your army's intentions?"

  Raipur paused before answering. "Look, I didn't make the decision to bomb your town, but if it had been up to me, yes, under the circumstances, I'd have used whatever I had at my disposal to soften this place up. Those men who came in here with me, they're my men, poorly led, maybe, and a bit wild because of that, but I'd have killed everything here before taking a chance on losing one of my men to an ambush. I won't tell you anything that might endanger them. What happened to the vehicle that was my backup?"

  "It took off like a big bird. A few minutes later the remaining four beat it back over the ridge on the other side of the village. Listen, I was held in interrogation too, much worse than anything you'll get here. I respect your silence on military matters. But understand that we don't want to fight anyone. Surely you know what happened to these people? Almost the entire sect, thousands of innocent victims, was wiped out by the devils. We thought the devils were still out there. These people are scared, is all. We never would have opened fire on you unless you fired first, and that's what you did."

  "I thought we were about to be ambushed. I gave the order to open fire. So would anybody."

  A figure approached. It was Spencer Maynard. He held out his hand. "Emwanna told me about you. Thanks." They shook.

  "How's the child?" Raipur asked.

  "Fine, thanks to you."

  "Spencer, stick around, I'll be needing you in a little while." Bass nodded toward the knot of villagers gathered about the cave entrance. They were casting nasty looks back at Raipur. There was big trouble brewing there. Bass knew he couldn't exactly blame the Stoughtons, but the law of warfare regarding prisoners would be observed. And this man might come in very handy tomorrow.

  Emwanna came with dried beef and cold water. Raipur ate ravenously, thanking her profusely between bites. She kissed the sergeant's hand, then withdrew and left the two men alone.

  "Reinforcements won't be here until sometime tomorrow," Raipur offered. "They will come in overwhelming force. You won't have a chance."

  "We might not be here tomorrow morning. But if they're left alone, these people want to rebuild their village, take back their lives. Will your commanders listen to us? Will you go to them under a flag of truce?"

  "I will," Raipur answered with confidence. He knew that Lieutenant Ben Loman, left to himself, would have gladly wiped out the survivors of New Salem, but he would stay under cover now, until the reinforcing column arrived, then cooler heads would be in command and Raipur was sure he could prevail upon those commanders to hold their fire and avoid another massacre.

  Lieutenant Ben Loman raced as far away from New Salem as fast as he could. Raipur and his men had been killed by demons—the sergeant's backup had seen the whole thing. There was a nest of them, heavily armed, back in that draw, and he was not about to stick around and take them on.

  Loman and the rest of his platoon got fifteen kilometers beyond New Salem before darkness closed in. The men were in a panic. They forted for the night when it got too dark to proceed any farther. Fortunately, they got one of the radios working again and contacted their company commander, reporting Skinks "in force and heavily armed" at New Salem. Captain Dieter informed Battalion, and the message was passed up to the regiment, brigade, and then division army group, which passed it up to General Lambsblood's headquarters. Nobody at a lower echelon wanted to take the initiative to attack a "heavily armed" and aggressive "nest" of demons without orders from higher command. The reinforcements Ben Loman's battalion was about to dispatch to New Salem were held back waiting for clearance.

  General Lambsblood requested guidance from Dominic de Tomas.

  Chapter 20

  Midnight. Flaring torches cast pale wavering light over the men of the Special Group assembled in the Great Hall at Wayvelsberg Castle. Utter darkness filled the distant recesses of the hall and the assembled faithful. In the flickering torchlight, the graven image of Heinrich the Fowler, the warrior-king who unified the ancient German states and whose statue many thought resembled Dominic de Tomas, seemed to come to life as it gazed down on the rites with baleful solemnity.

  De Tomas stepped forward and stood before the dozen men standing at rigid attention in the center of the Great Hall. As he did, the clear, soaring notes of a single trumpet sounded "Attention!" The notes echoed throughout the vastness of the hall, and when they died away, a band struck up "Raise the Flag!" the anthem of the Special Group and the SPK. All the hundreds of men present stood silently in ranks around the hall, singing the stirring words.

  "Raise the flag! Our ranks are tightly closed..."

  When the last note and the roar of the voices had vanished into the stygian corners of the great darkened hall, two shooters—one bearing a velvet-lined case studded with a dozen silver rings, the other holding richly engraved leather binders containing certificates printed on vellum—stepped into position to de Tomas's left and right rear. The only sound in the hall was the fluttering of the torches as de Tomas silently looked into the faces of the dozen men standing before him. They were about to receive the highest honor a man of the Special Group could aspire to, an honor given only at midnight on the sixth day of the week, and only in the Great Hall. No matter where a man was when selected to receive this accolade, he was called back to Haven for the ceremony. Each occasion was presided over personally by de Tomas; no one was ever permitted to stand in for him.

  The twelve men assembled that night at Wayvelsberg were about to receive the Special Group Death's Head Honor Ring.

  When de Tomas had taken over as the Dean of the Collegium, he realized that it was necessary that the men who enforced its authority should see themselves as standing apart from the rest of humanity. Their special uniforms, their rigorous selection and training, the sense of belonging to an elite corps that was fostered by their leaders and fellows every waking hour of every day, all were vital ingredients in a process carefully designed to bind each recruit to the mystique of the Special Group. The Honor Ring, given only after a man had proven himself, was the final step required to induct him forever into the sacred companionship of his comrades.

  At last de Tomas signaled the man to his left, who handed him one of the leather binders. "Shooter Camarines Ambos, Special Group Number 42,678!" de Tomas read in a voice that reached every corner of the Great Hall. The single trumpet once again sounded "Attention!" as Shooter Ambos took one step forward and came to attention.

  "I hereby decorate you with the Honor Ring of the Special Group," de Tomas intoned. He did not have to look at the certificate. He'd done this so many times over the years, he had the text memorized. "It is a symbol of our loyalty to each other, our unmitigated obedience to our superiors, and our everlasting faith in our comrades. The Death's Head is an admonition to be prepared at any time to sacrifice one's life for the life of the collective whole. The Death's Head is surrounded by the goshawks that symbolize the unshakable faith in the rightness of our mission in the service of justice and in the victory of our worldview. This ring may never be allowed to fall into the hands of anyone who is not one of us! When you leave this life, this ring will be returned to your leader. Like your spirit, it will live on in our community, to one day honor other men who have earned the right to wear it. Wear it in honor!"

  The shooter to de Tomas's right presented the case of rings, and he took one. Again the trumpet sounded, this time accompanied by a quick drum roll. The rings had been sized a long time ago, and this one slid perfectly onto the middle finger of Shooter Ambos's right hand. He accepted a brief handshake from the Leader, took his certificate, saluted smartly, and stepped back into the rank.

  Herten Gorman stood in the shadows. He was remembering the time when de Tomas had presented him with his own Honor Ring. He glanced at it now. The silver skull inlaid in black opal and surrounded by spread-winged goshawks was
his prize possession. His heart swelled within his chest the night de Tomas had slipped this ring onto his finger. Well, that had been a long time ago, he thought, and the world had changed drastically since then. And so had Dominic de Tomas. Oh, he is in great form tonight, Gorman reflected; nobody can outdo him in public. He recalled the night only recently when they'd had the reception for the Auxiliaries in that very hall, when the great Leader had kissed hands and sweet-talked the ladies, bowing, scraping, ingratiating himself, and how he, Herten Gorman, had been relegated once again to the despicable role of the Leader's pimp.

  Worse, far worse, was when he, Deputy Leader and technically the man responsible for running de Tomas's government, had recently been frozen out of all the major decisions, hardly even consulted, reduced to a figurehead.

  In all the time that Gorman had served in the SG, de Tomas had been the distant, ruthless, and ascetic power behind the Collegium. In those days, except on ceremonial occasions, most men of the SG never saw their leader. But they all respected him—and feared him. But since the seizure of power, de Tomas had taken on a new personality, presenting himself as a "man of the people." The last executions he'd ordered had been of the professors at the university. Since then, even those who explicitly opposed his rule or posed a threat to it, instead of facing summary execution, were placed in "protective custody." No picnic, to be sure, but they were still alive. Gorman believed that a serious mistake. He thought back to the students who'd been caught distributing leaflets on campus. Gorman would have fed them into the furnaces and executed their entire families, stamped out the treason at its source. But de Tomas had let them go!

  Where everyone else in the Great Hall of Wayvelsberg Castle that night smelled only the aromatic bouquet of the flaring torches, Herten Gorman smelled the seeds of disaster. He placed his right hand, and the finger bearing the ring, behind his back.