by Norah Wilson
The Eleventh Commandment
A Dystopian Romance
by
Norah Wilson & Heather Doherty
First Blood
Episode 1 of 4
PUBLISHED BY:
Norah Wilson / Something Shiny Press
P.O. Box 30046, Fredericton, NB, E3B 0H8
Copyright
Copyright © 2015 Norah Wilson and Heather Doherty
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owners and the publisher of this book.
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, establishments, organizations, or locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and are not to be construed as real. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the authors.
ISBN: 9781927651186
Cover by Kim Killion, The Killion Group Inc.
Edited by Lori Gallagher
Other Episodes in this Serial
The Eleventh Commandment
A dystopian romance
Episode 2 – Bleeder
Episode 3 – Society Three
Episode 4 – Reclaimed
Prologue
Late Summer, 2063
THE PAIN throbbed through him with every breath he drew, but still the Prophet studied the soldier carefully.
This was the one. The one they called Kallem.
Those eyes! He remembered them now. They’d been so fierce, so intelligent. Indomitable, even. But that was before the Prophet's Holy New Order had converted this man before him.
The soldier—this Kallem—stood at attention, his eyes forward, chest out, shoulders back, feet together, hands fisted at his sides, every line of his body taut and ready. And he was blindly obedient as he awaited his Prophet’s command.
“At ease, soldier.”
Some of the tautness went out of the man’s posture as he clasped his hands behind his back and shifted his feet further apart, to shoulders’ width.
There had been no file to look through on this one. No chip in his shoulder to be activated. No record or badges or medals of honor. He was one of the originals, for whom there were no records. And he had the tattoo to prove it. They were the first of his soldiers, ten years ago. The hand-picked and chosen ones. The first to change with the Prophet's Ending Testament. To trample the non-conformists, and to move the cogs of the wheels for his new society.
Kallem would have been hardly more than a boy then. Twenty-one, twenty-two at most.
They’d all been that young, his One Hundred and One First Guard. Powerfully built, muscular, quick. Natural born combatants. They’d been shaped into elite soldiers, trained to carry out the Prophet’s command and that of his few generals. Swagg himself had seen to it. And those soldiers had killed for him, each and every one of them. Killed on command, without question. That had been part of the price of admission to the First Guard. But by that time, not such a one on their souls.
This was His new world. The Holy New Order. The only one there could be.
The Prophet shifted on his throne—an ornate mahogany monstrosity of a chair padded with an exquisite embroidered cushion—trying to ease his discomfort. His medic, Graham, had helped him out of his bed, fretting all the way. A man with a collapsed lung and a chest tube ought not to be ambulating, he’d protested. Even now, Graham waited—nervously no doubt— outside the chamber, ready to put his patient back to bed. But this matter had to be attended to, and the Prophet refused to give his charge to the soldier Kallem from anywhere but the true throne, his rightful place.
The Prophet opened the smoking jacket Graham had helped him into and withdrew a long rectangular box. From it, he removed three needles, one by one, and laid them on the table to the right of his throne—thin syringes filled with a dark red liquid, almost black now in the low light of his chamber. He always dwelled in the low light, and not just for fear of the cancer brought on by the relentless sun outside. The dimness suited him. It pleased him, too, to sit in the shadows while his visitor stood illuminated by a small but bright spotlight.
He watched Kallem standing there in the pool of light, eyes forward still. His shoulders were massive. It occurred to the Prophet how easily this trained killer could bridge the gap between them, if he chose to. The larger man could snap his neck in an instant if he wanted to. Yet the Prophet wasn’t afraid, even in his weakened condition. For he could end life so easily for this young man, as easily as he’d started it for all of them in his Holy New Order. And he could do it with just one command: “Inject yourself with this needle.” The soldier would obey. Of that, the Prophet had no doubt. Then he would almost assuredly drop dead. Yet the Prophet could inject himself with the same dose and live. No, not just live. He’d be transported to that place where God talked to him and only him! It was as Swagg said—he was so much stronger even than this strapping young soldier. Holier than them all!
The Prophet leaned back in his throne, as much to ease the pain in his chest and shoulder as anything, but knowing, too, that the casual pose helped project his comfort and confidence with the authority he wielded. He played with the needle. Rolling it on the table with his right hand, back and forth, back and forth, as Kallem waited for his command.
“Do you know why I called you here?” the Prophet finally asked from the shadows.
“No, sir.”
“You’ve heard the rumors? The rumors of what happened here earlier tonight?” This was a test. Would he answer truthfully, no matter what the cost? The sirens had stopped barely an hour ago. Yet no floodgates had been opened, no forces had been sent along. Of course Kallem had heard the rumors.
“We have runners.”
“Yes,” the Prophet answered, tightly. “Two of them. Females. One a common whore, and one a prize.”
“A bleeder, sir?”
Ah, he was smart. A bleeder had never before escaped. They were heavily guarded. Kept always in their compound except when being bred or attended to medically. Kept away from the general population so that only the select, fittest men could attempt insemination. But the guards had not thought to question the Prophet’s whore when she’d presented herself with written orders, marked with the Prophet’s personal seal, to release the bleeder for transport to the Prophet.
How dare she!
His chest and shoulder throbbed with pain, but his heart—the heart his own whore had so narrowly missed with that blade—throbbed still harder with fury. The slaying of two of the fool guards had done little to assuage his wrath.
“Yes, she’s a bleeder. But not just any bleeder. We’ve run the tests. This one is special, capable of breeding many times. Full ovaries. Completely healthy ovaries. We’ve not seen one like her in decades.”
“You want me to bring her back, sir?”
Anxious to start. That was good. And no mention of the other one—his whore. This one knew the rules and apparently had no qualms with them. Runners were to be executed; no delay, no hesitation. Only their heads were ever brought back, to be displayed permanently for all the other females to see—their eyes pecked out by birds, the flesh left to rot and mummify. The oldest of the runners’ heads were just skulls now, gleaming white in the burning
sunlight. There were dozens of such trophies—such warnings to the women—in the compound. But the Prophet knew, the soldiers knew, and the females knew—there were a few who had gotten away. And legend had it they’d found their sanctuary.
That they’d found Society Three.
“I want you to bring them both back,” he ordered. “The bleeder and the other. But Kallem,” he whispered, leaning forward. “Not right away. First...see where they go.”
The soldier’s eyes shot to him. Good. He was understanding. Figuring out now why no floodgates had been opened, why no soldiers had rushed into the woods that buffered the compound. This wasn’t just a mission to retrieve and punish. This wasn't about setting fear into the hearts of all other females. This was more.
“The whore is clever,” the Prophet said. “Brave, for a woman. But still, I want her alive. That one I’ll kill myself.” But only after he’d dealt with her. And struck his blows deep into her heart. Into her unclaimed soul! And the Prophet knew just how to hurt her. Through the bleeder, Zophia, the one Maree had so foolishly forfeited her life to free. How deep did her affection run for that girl? Why? Or perhaps Maree only wanted to deal the Prophet yet another blow by taking such a priceless commodity.
Either way, he would see to it the bleeder was never reprieved, even after her time was done. And if the mythical Society Three truly existed, he’d find it and destroy it. It and all rumors of it—all hope of it. And he’d do that in Maree’s name too. “Yes,” he said slowly. “Leave the whore to me.”
For the first time since he’d entered the chamber, Kallem’s eyes met the Prophet’s, though only for a moment.
Interesting.
The solider had seemed to react at the mention of Maree’s name. Why? Had Kallem known her also? No. Impossible. The Prophet had taken her as a virgin, called her to him frequently. And as often as he’d punished her, he’d never sent her to the soldiers, and no woman went there willingly.
Maybe it was only the name that had caught the soldier’s attention. For everyone knew Maree was his and his alone.
The needle broke under the Prophet’s fist. He snatched his hand back, wiped it on his robe. No splinters, no blood.
“Leave at once. Track them well,” he ordered. “Don’t let them escape, but do let them lead you to where it is they would go. And once they’ve revealed their destination, take control, Kallem. Bring the females back.”
Kallem nodded, gave a deep bow, and whirled to execute his orders.
The Prophet pulled his robe away from his left shoulder and looked down at the covered wounds. Blood was soaking through the bandage over the stab wound on his shoulder. The chest tube, he didn’t dare look at. The medic would examine it and give him something more for the pain.
Maree would pay. For these injuries to his flesh, yes, but more so for the wound to his dignity. After she’d stabbed him, he’d played dead like a weak and fearful woman. The memory shamed him. Through cracked eyelids, he’d watched her scurry to his desk, draw out paper, write something. Finally, she’d applied his seal to the papers and folded them. He’d planned to raise the alarm the moment she left the room, but she’d lingered over the papers. By the time she’d tucked the document into her skirt pocket at last, his left lung had collapsed. He’d risen to summon the guard, but pitched forward into unconsciousness. She was long gone by the time one of his generals had come hours later and discovered him.
And to add insult to injury, she'd taken his knife—his sacred knife. The one she thought she’d slain him with.
“And Kallem?” The Prophet’s words arrested the soldier just before he reached the door.
Kallem turned, came again to rigid attention. “Sir?”
“Do you remember the Eleventh Commandment?”
“Yes, sir,” the soldier answered.
Yet, as he said it, the Prophet almost felt the cold shift in the room. Just the flicker of it in the pause. Had he really paused? Had there been a trace of hesitation in him?
Kallem put his hand to his heart and dipped his head. His voice rang out clearly in the chamber. “Thou shalt not disbelieve.”
The Prophet again was satisfied. “Very good, Kallem. Don’t fail me in this.”
“I won’t, sir.” With another deep bow, the soldier hurried off to do his bidding.
Chapter 1
THEY FELL to the ground in exhaustion. And it was only then, when they stopped running—stopped panting and steadied their breaths—that Maree realized she could no longer hear the sirens. Had they traveled that far? Had they traveled that straight? She’d kept track of the moon as they’d run. The select stars she’d seen at the tip of the crescent.
Please let me be right, she silently prayed, though she knew not to whom.
Maree lifted her face from the earth and looked around the darkened clearing. Now that they weren’t racing through the field and crashing through brush, she heard the night noises start up, crickets and katydids. But the natural sounds did little to calm her terror.
God help her, what had she done?
What needed doing, that’s what.
It was a steadying thought, and she pulled in a deep lungful of air. Her bare arms prickled with goose bumps, as much from the chill of the August night on her cooling flesh as from the fear. But they needed to rest. Needed these few minutes. To think. To regroup.
She sat up and pushed herself backward until she could lean against the strong flare of the birch tree. With a prompting arm, she pulled Zophia closer. The younger woman went easily to her, folding to rest her head on Maree’s lap and closing her eyes. Maree rubbed the other girl’s exposed arm to warm it, and the younger one took the comfort she offered. Then again, why shouldn’t she? They were sisters. Maree smoothed Zophia’s worried forehead just as she’d done when Zophia was a child. Incredibly, almost instantly, Zophia was breathing deeply in her arms. Resting. Maree smiled.
Sisters. A word seldom heard anymore, at least not in this true sense.
Maree and Zophia were two of the rare ones who knew they were biologically related. It was a miracle, blind luck, or providence that they’d stayed together. When the Holy New Order was declared, kin were torn apart; shipped to various colonies. Though most didn’t realize it, dazed as they were by the stupor of that first inoculation and the indoctrination that had followed.
Maree and Zophia had wound up in the same village only because Maree had lied.
Zophia was young enough that she hadn’t had to have the shot. The population had been told that the pandemic threatening the entire globe affected only adults. There had been earlier pandemics, deadly ones. Devastating scourges that had left their mark on humankind. But the one of a decade ago, Maree now knew to have been a ruse. They’d used the population’s fear of yet another pandemic to round everyone up and give them the injection. They hadn’t bothered with the young ones, since, supposedly, their minds could be reshaped without the pharmaceutical reboot.
Maree had been “inoculated,” but by whatever grace, she’d been spared the drug’s effects. Though just shy of eighteen, she’d known to fake her way through the transition period. She’d screamed when the others had. Feigned confusion like the rest of them. Obedience. Passiveness. She’d stuck two fingers down her throat so she could throw up like the others did during those first few dark days. And when the “re-integration of knowledge” had started, she’d pretended along with the others that she was a blessed blank slate—looked up with the other empty faces at the video screens relaying the Prophet's message for hours upon hours those first few weeks. Until the messages, the “sermons” as they were called, had come to be played only every other day. Now there were twice-weekly addresses. At least, that’s how it was in the Principal Compound—the one from which they’d escaped. Maree presumed it was the same in other compounds. And she’d continued to feign rapt attention to those sermons. She’d done it for herself. But too, she had done it for Zophia. Both of their parents had resisted the wave of the Holy New Order. Her
father had been killed; her mother had disappeared one night, never to be seen again. Rumor had it she was dead, and Maree believed it.
Of course, Maree wasn’t the only one who hadn’t responded to the drug’s mind-clearing effects. But those who admitted it, or who inadvertently gave themselves away, were killed. Horribly. The men, right away with a bullet to the head; the women, after they’d been given to the soldiers. Unless they happened to be bleeders—one of the rare ones, still potentially fertile after the environmental disasters. In that case, even the cardinal sin of disbelief took a back seat to procreation. Among the women, it was universally agreed that death would be a better fate than what lay before them. Those unfortunate “disbelieving” women were kept isolated even from other bleeders lest their corruption rub off. They were removed from their madness-inducing solitary confinement only to be bred. Once impregnated, the only reprieve they received from their isolation was the monthly pre-natal checks dispensed by cold and judgmental clinicians.
Maree heard a crack in the woods beside her. Immediately her body tensed, and her hand went to the handle of the knife hidden down her tall boot. A porcupine lumbered out, took one look at the two women and disappeared back into the bushes again. She eased her grip on the blade's handle, tucking it firmly back into its hiding spot.
She'd used this knife—the Prophet's own knife—against her tormentor. Yes, she’d killed him. Her first strike had hit his shoulder, just a flesh wound. But the second one... Dear God, the second blow had sunk deep into his chest. Into his black heart. Maree would do it all over again—use the knife on whomever she needed to—to protect herself or her sister.
And she’d do it without missing a heartbeat.
“The dogs aren’t following.”
Maree looked down at her sister, whose open eyes now glittered in the moonlight. “I know.”
