The Apostates

by Lars Teeney

  “Mr. Wynham. You failed to give me all that I wanted. There is still the matter of the encrypted partition. Neither you or Zhukov will allow me access. I would hate to have to physically remove the implants from your head, but I will if I have to,” Inquisitor Rodrigo threatened.

  “I wish I could help you. Unfortunately, I was just a pawn of what I thought was the will of the Church, that it was why I willingly carried the encrypted data. I would have refused had I known he was the Apostate mole,” Wynham fabricated the whole scenario.

  “That might be true, but I will crack this nut. It will be either you or Zhukov.” The Inquisitor walked over to torture case and grabbed a ‘Database’ applicator.

  “I must follow this through until I get what I want. That is my purpose in life.” Inquisitor Rodrigo approached close to Graham and thrust the applicator into his shoulder. The drug drained into Graham’s bloodstream and would soon take effect.

  Graham tried to prepare for the effects as best he could. He had theorized that his years of doing ‘Database’ would prepare him for whatever the Inquisitor could throw at him, but the strain of drug that the Inquisitor used was of a grade he had never experienced. It was some form of weaponized ‘Database’, and, it was very potent, indeed. Even being aware of what the drug was capable of was not enough to overcome its effects. He waited, stern-faced for the nightmare to begin, prepared for the worst. But then, nothing happened. The Inquisitor stood in front of him, silent. Graham stared at him.

  “Mr. Wynham, it would save everyone quite a bit of trouble if you would just tell us how to access the encrypted data. Please, you must see the weight of the situation? These Apostates want to stop the Second Coming of the Lord. Do you realize what would happen if they were successful? Total anarchy would ensue. The faithful would have nothing to live for. Do you really want that on your shoulders?” the Inquisitor pleaded with Graham, almost to the point of being polite.

  “Inquisitor Rodrigo, I would love to help you if I could. If I had the information I would happily surrender it. My family has been loyal subjects of the Church and the Regime for generations. You must believe me,” Graham tried to convince the Inquisitor he was telling the truth.

  The Inquisitor let out an exasperated sigh, “Oh well. I was hoping that you would be a bit more cooperative this time around, but, I should have expected this from you.” The Inquisitor moved toward the metal door and opened it. A figure walked into the room, dressed in the same black robe and cone-shaped hood that the Inquisitor wore.

  “I have brought in a special guest. Maybe he can talk sense into you?” the Inquisitor stated.

  The second hooded figure stood in front of Graham for some time, not saying anything. Graham waited intently for any surprises that would be sprung on him.

  “Graham Wynham, to see you right now like this truly breaks my heart. I built the family legacy—I took it from a criminal enterprise to legitimacy. I carefully fostered relationships with the government of the Untied States and the Church to last generations. I was proud of what I left for successive generations of our family. Then what happened? You came along, Graham. Colluding with traitors to overthrow President Schrubb?” the hooded figure lectured Graham. He struggled to keep his head high, and tried to figure out who he was talking to.

  “You’ve destroyed the family name, and you betrayed your own blood.” The man pulled off his hood. He was old and weathered. His thinned, white hair still held a hint of blond in it. He had defined cheekbones and dimples that wrinkles had obscured. The man was still handsome but had a flap of skin hanging from under his chin. Graham could not believe his eyes. He had seen photos, and newsreels of his grandfather: Warren Wynham, but, he passed away before Wynham was born. Graham tried to will him away, but he did not go.

  “What is it, Graham? Can’t face up to me, boy? The least you can do is fucking look me in the eye!” Warren Wynham scolded him like he was a child. He bent down to catch Graham’s eye.

  “You aren’t my grandfather.” Graham spat into Warren’s face. Warren recoiled in horror and wiped his eyes with the black robe he wore. His face assumed a look of anger, then, he drew back a fist and gave Graham a right hook to the temple.

  “Is that real enough for you, boy? Care for another dose of reality?” Warren postured like he was going to deliver another blow.

  “No, that’s enough! I get it—you made your point. What do you want from me?” Graham winced in pain.

  “Ain’t it obvious, boy? I want you to cooperate. You can still do something to minimize the damage you’ve done to the family before we are judged by the Lord.” Warren tried to dictate Graham’s actions. Graham was resisting as best he could, but it seemed that he could not refute reality; the flesh and blood proof was staring him in the face.

  “You died. I remember my father told me about it. You passed away before I was even born. You aren’t even real,” Graham defiantly stated to the apparition of his grandfather.

  “Have you gone daft, boy? President Schrubb is still around ain’t he? I’m still here alive and kicking. Your father lied to you. I have been living abroad all these years. But, now I’m back because of the shit storm that you’ve stirred up!” Warren was livid and flung spittle toward Graham when he yelled.

  “Even if you are my grandfather, still, I don’t understand what you, or Rodrigo, expect me to do! I keep telling you that I was a patsy for Cardinal Zhukov! He’s the mole!” Graham tried to convince them of his ignorance.

  “Hell! Boy, you know what I am after. Now you may have inherited my propensity for avoidance and deflection, but you are my flesh and blood and I know you better than you know yourself. So, you can’t fucking hide the truth from me!” Warren slapped Graham across the mouth, “Give it up, boy!” Graham spat out blood.

  “You certainly are right that the Wynham’s have to learn the art of deception to survive in the arms trade and to navigate the world of politics, but sometimes you just have to take what someone says at face value! I don’t know!” Graham was tired, and he hadn’t eaten in a day. What they did give him was meager at best. He mulled giving in.

  “You disappoint me, boy. I fear that I can’t talk sense into you, and you have no respect for our family name. Maybe the fuck up that was responsible for your life can make you see the light? Bring him in,” Warren commanded one of Rodrigo’s aides to open the metal door. In stepped another figure dressed in the black robe and coned-hat get up. Warren slapped the robed person on the back, encouraging him forward.

  “Yeah, that’s right, boy. Step up there and talk some sense into the whelp.” Warren was being rough with the man who had entered the room, prodding him forward.

  “Son, listen to your grandfather. He has extreme methods, but he cares for the family. He intends to repair our standing with the Regime and Church.” The man pulled his cone-shaped hood off to reveal his face. He was a middle-aged man with peppered brown hair and a mustache on his upper lip. He possessed the Wynham family dimples and a face like a salesman.

  “Father, what is...this? You’re...dead. I know you are!” Graham could barely speak. His mind was going fuzzy, and he could barely make out his father’s face.

  “No, son, I’m here. I implore you. Please listen to your grandfather. We need to make right with the Regime!” His father spoke softly but firmly. Warren Wynham grew agitated.

  “Don’t baby the boy, Carlton! If it means we have to beat it out of him then so be it—we don’t have time for this!” Warren was red in the face, and making false starts like he was about to strike Carlton. Carlton turned to Warren to try to calm him down.

  “Please father, let’s be civil about this. We can talk—” The left hook interrupted Carlton’s speech. He fell back onto his rear end in front of Graham. Carlton wiped his mouth and spit blood onto a handkerchief.

  “To hell with this! There’s no time! Graham, tell us how to access the encrypted data. You need to do it, now! Carton, you goddamned, fuck up—you spawned this traitor. You tell
him to do it!” Warren, infuriated, pulled a gun from under his robe, and put it up against Carlton’s temple, “You either talk sense into the boy, or he gives up the information. I don’t care which, but do it now!” He pushed Carlton’s head with the barrel of the gun.

  “P-please, dad! Don’t do this! For god’s sake, Graham!” Carlton was panicking, and stuttering his speech.

  “Grand...dad...p-please...” Graham tried to speak, but the words did not come easy, “I am...” He couldn’t say any more.

  “You what? You what? Damn you, boy!” Warren tried to prod Graham to continue to no avail.

  “Tell him, Warren! He better continue! What’s he gonna say?” Warren demanded.

  “Gr-Graham! Please, what are you trying to say?” Carlton was shaking as he spoke.

  “Keep talking!” Warren was sweating from anger.

  “I-I-am...ahh...” Graham’s mind was not working right, he could no longer conjure words. The two men in front of him were shouting words to him that were losing their meanings. He struggled to focus. The man who resembled his father, Carlton, was pleading with Graham, using words that he couldn’t make out. The man who looked like his grandfather, Warren, was yelling some kind of profanities that Graham couldn’t recall and was pushing the barrel of the gun onto the back of Carlton’s head. Warren yelled some final words with a face possessed and pulled the trigger. Carlton’s face came apart and bits of his father pelted Graham’s face. Graham couldn’t even scream. The specter of his grandfather looked Graham in the eye, trying to get his attention—slapping him, but Graham did not stir. Rodrigo and Warren appeared to be conversing, then, they exited the room. Graham raised his head and tried to say something to them, “I-I-I...am...an...Apostate.”

  With that he could no longer think coherently. He dropped his head with loss of motor functions, hanging while a line of drool from Graham’s mouth descended to the floor. The door to his holding cell was shut tight, and the darkness crept back into reign in light’s stead.

  ⍟ ⍟ ⍟

  SOCIETATUM PENTAGRAM

  Monsignor Pietro Carafa had been living a simple life: farming the land, transcribing religious texts by hand and maintaining protection rackets on villages surrounding Liberia, Costa Rica. He was a devout and pious man and did not go seeking out violence. There were only two reasons for violence: if a villager did not pay the Lord’s tax for the Lord’s protection, and if he and his Order were ordained for contracts against the enemies of Christianity. They maintained their martial skills by shaking down villages and fighting against black market cartels. Every once in a great while, the Order did receive contracts from the Church of New Megiddo for missions south of their border, as the power of L.O.V.E. beyond the borders was limited.

  Monsignor Carafa had been practicing his horsemanship with other members of the Order. There were four other Friars under him at the Friary. There was Friar Leo who was his Left Hand, Friar Pius who was his Right Hand, Friar Francis—she was his Left Foot, and Friar Benedict was the Right Foot. Monsignor Carafa held what he and his comrades considered the ‘Spear of Destiny’, or the spear that pierced Christ on the Cross. Of course in actuality, it was just an average plasma-bladed spear with a modern metallic shaft, but what was important was that the Order believed it true. Carafa had been charging his gelding mount around static targets of melon and sandbag, and he pierced and slashed them as he rode by. He was an excellent horseman, and so were his underlings. Monsignor Carafa had finished his run and then Friar Francis began her training.

  After Carafa had finished his horseback training he had moved to the Friary building to study the Holy Scriptures and make more copies of manuscripts to maintain his penmanship. As he entered the Friary he was transported back to the Fifteenth century. The Friary had been a colonial Spanish cathedral. It had sat empty for several hundred years and had been crumbling in places, but then it was found by the Order and they had refurbished it for their own uses. The interior was surprisingly well-constructed: plaster and marble had been used in combination to create harmonized space. Marble slabs were cut to create a seamless floor and ran up the wall half way to meet plaster and wood moldings. Archways lined either side of the open chamber that led up to the altar, complete with the Christ figure on the Cross, depicted as a golden idol. The wooden pews had been removed to provide living space for the Monsignor and the Friars. Portable wooden dividers had been erected in place to provide a modicum of privacy.

  When Carafa had received the hail from Arch-Deacon von Manstein he had been practicing his calligraphy, and almost did not respond. He had grown accustomed to a life of semi-retirement. But then, he remembered the huge amounts of funds that the Church often paid, which would be enough to launch a new offensive against the Cartels. So, Monsignor Carafa had answered the call, and now for better or worse he was bound to the contract. Carafa had stowed his scribe tools: his quill, inkwell, and parchment, and picked up his Pentagram armor and began to fit himself. Carafa snatched up his spear and activated the plasma tip. Its white hot, energy jet reflected in his dark pupils. Carafa opened a looming, oak armoire, and plucked out a large, white, hooded cloak, with a black encircled pentagram on the back. He threw the cloak up over his head and fastened it in place. Carafa then approached the altar and knelt to say a prayer before the golden Jesus idol. He asked forgiveness for sins he had yet to commit: it saved time that way.

  Monsignor Carafa exited the Friary and moved to the training field where the Friars had been training in horseback riding. Friar Pius, the Right Hand noticed Monsignor Carafa approaching and was geared up. Friar Pius shouted to the others to stand at attention and the other three Friars dismounted their horses to converge on Friar Pius’s position.

  Friar Pius was a stout man with dark hair and eyes, and a handlebar mustache. He was physically strong and his thick neck bulged with veins. He carried a utility belt, which hung duel sheaths for trench daggers on either hip. The man had descended from an Italian line of Argentinians and so he spoke both Spanish and Italian fluently, although the Order followed the old Vatican tradition of using Latin for official business.

  Carafa approached and spoke to the Friars in Spanish,“Mis amigos. La Iglesia de Nueva Meguido nos ordenó. (My friends. The Church of New Megiddo ordained us.)” He planted the butt end of his spear in the dirt and leaned on it.

  “¿Cuáles son los detalles del contrato? (What are the details of the contract?)” Friar Francis, the Left Foot, had asked. She had just finished wiping some melon juice off the blade of her cavalry saber, and slid it back into its scabbard. Friar Francis was an Armenian woman whose original name had been lost during her service to the Order. At a younger age she had been Orthodox Christian but had converted to Catholicism long ago. She always wore a facial veil at all times.

  “Ellos tienen un problema con los Apóstatas. Tenemos que detenerlos. (They have a problem with the Apostates. We have to stop them,)” Monsignor Carafa responded, shifting his weight and pushing his black hair out of his eyes.

  “¿Dónde debemos ir a encontrarlos? (Where should we go to find them?)” Friar Leo, the Left Hand, asked. This man was short and slight, with a frame like a horse jockey from centuries passed. He had dirty blonde hair and hazel eyes, and had descended from an aristocratic line of Spaniards who had remained in the New World. The man had an old bolt-action rifle slung over his shoulder.

  “El estrecho de Panamá. (The Panama Strait,)” Carafa revealed to them the location. He had already been forging a plan in his head.

  “Ah, sí, eso tiene sentido perfecto. (Ah, yes, that makes perfect sense,)” Friar Benedict, the Right Foot, said in a moment of clarity. He was somewhat of a sycophant; he would always agree with the Monsignor, which is why he was the Right Foot and not the Right Hand. Benedict was a barrel-chested man: he drank too much mead and liked to eat. The man was barely fit for combat and was used by Carafa and the others to cook, and carry provisions. If he was lucky sometimes he was allowed to charge down fleeing pe
asants in clean up operations. He was used often for intelligence gathering.

  “De todas formas, necesito que todo esté listo. Salimos de esta noche. (Anyway, I need all of you to be ready. We leave tonight,)” Carafa instructed, “Vamos a tener que encontrar los suministros de alimentos. (We will need to forage for supplies.)” Carafa stated. All Friars knew that this was a euphemism for “shakedown the locals for provisions”. The Friars’ eyes lit up with the anticipation of engaging in sport. Friar Francis, on the other hand, had shown no emotion at this announcement; one was hard pressed to judge what she felt behind the veil.

  An unspoken expectation was placed upon Friar Benedict, who would gather up the ammunition and supplies, and would ready the Andalusian geldings that the Friars rode. As Benedict was the unofficial quartermaster of the group, he rode upon a metal wagon, pulled by a pair of mules. The wagon contained spits for cooking meat, various pots for stews and ammunition and other combat supplies. They would need to collect tribute from the villagers for food. Friar Benedict began rounding up the geldings and led them into the courtyard of the Friary. The other Friars had gone indoors to collect their gear.

  Friar Benedict loaded ammunition crates and explosives into the wagon. His white, Order of the Pentagram uniform was stained under the arms with sweat. Benedict was working up a fresh sweat deposit from his labors. He had sweat dripping down from his wide-brimmed hat, which salted his eyes. It was a hot, tropical day. The occasional rain cloud drifted overhead but failed to coalesce into a storm. The symphony of the surrounding jungle sounded from a million different sources. Mosquitoes had also swarmed his body, which added to the irritation of labor.

  The Monsignor and Friars had emerged from the Friary in full battle attire and armed to the teeth. They looked upon Friar Benedict, chuckled, and blessed him for his virtuous labor. The Friars added some items to the wagon-load. Each Friar sought out their respective geldings and mounted up. Monsignor Carafa placed a carbon fiber saddle onto his horse’s back. He mounted his gelding with the pentagram blazoned cloak jerking in the wind behind him. Friar Benedict clumsily climbed up into the driver’s bench of the wagon. He placed his pentagram cloak beside him on the bench. It was too hot to wear it now, but the waterproof cloaks came in handy during tropical rains. Carafa took the head of the column and the rest of the Friars followed on horseback, with the wagon of Friar Benedict bringing up the rear.