Apostasy Rising

by J A Bouma

  Alexander’s mind swam with confusion and concern. If the Ministerium was sending a courier by silence and shadow, the matter must be grave.

  He took in a breath and nodded. “Alright, I’ll be out in a minute. Where is he now?”

  “I put him in your study and locked the door. He insisted. It was the only way for him to go undetected with noon Mass starting soon.”

  Alexander put his hand on Zakaria’s shoulder, a tremor working its way back and forth underneath his large hand. “You did good. It’ll be fine, I’m sure.” Zakaria relaxed slightly at his encouragement.

  The man left and Father Zarruq went to his bedroom to change his pants, wondering what terror had befallen Ichthus to require such subterfuge.

  Chapter 3

  The solid walnut door was locked tight when Alexander tried turning the aged burnished bronze handle to his study. He huffed and then knocked three short bursts, paused, and then two more to provide the ancient signal of the Fidelium, the keepers of the faith, alerting whoever was inside that a friend was and trying to gain access to their own office.

  He heard the lock click, then a shuffling of feet beyond.

  He hesitated, apprehensive about what he would find on the other side. Then he grabbed the handle and turned it, sliding in to discover his heavy brown curtains drawn across the large window overlooking the bluff. The darkness was almost as suffocating as the stale humid air and musty vintage tomes lining his walls.

  Movement caught his eye from the corner of the room, a figure hiding in the corner between the curtain and a bookcase of dark wood.

  “Father Zarruq?” the figure asked stepping out from the shadows, face hidden by a dark mask, a heavy brown cloak pulled high.

  Alexander froze; his mouth went dry. He stole a glance around the rest of the cramped space, spotting nothing but piles of books spilling to the floor and finding no other intruders. He was tall and packed enough lean muscle to handle the intruder, and he flexed his hands into fists in case the moment called for action.

  “I am he,” he managed. “And you are? What is the meaning of this?”

  “Did anyone see you?” the cloaked figure whispered, rushing past him to secure the lock again.

  “Did anyone see me?” Alexander asked in annoyance. “It’s my office, who cares if someone blooming saw me?”

  “Who else knows about my visit?” the masked figure said lowly, back still turned toward the priest.

  “My assistant Zakaria, that is it. What’s this about? Who are you, sir?”

  “Tara Rodriguez,” she said, turning around, “with Ministerium security. The Fidelium sent me bearing a message from an old friend.”

  “Tara? Forgive me, but I didn’t expect a woman.”

  Alexander moved to his old wooden desk and flopped down into a well-worn leather chair that groaned in response to Father Zarruq’s tall, muscular frame. “Please, sit. What message does the Fidelium desire me to receive that they send a masked woman? I thought I already paid my dues for the year.”

  Tara pulled back her hood and removed the mask, not uncommon for women in those parts, revealing a small round face with high cheekbones and penetrating dark brown Latin eyes beneath close-cropped black hair. “I’m afraid their concern is far bigger than unpaid dues, Father.”

  She placed an envelope sealed with crimson wax, stamped with the seal bearing the initials FJF.

  Father Jim?

  Alexander leaned back in his chair and brought a hand up to his chin, wondering why his mentor, godfather, and former best friend of his own father was going to such lengths to send him a message. One written on and sealed in parchment, no less.

  He hesitated to pick it up, staring at it with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity.

  “Father, I don’t know what is in that envelope,” Tara interrupted, “but I suggest you open it. I’m instructed to help you do whatever that envelope requires.”

  He eyed her, hand stroking his stubbled chin. “What are you, some sort of spy? An assassin?”

  “I’m help,” she said curtly, staring back with fixed, unmoving eyes.

  A shudder ran up Alexander’s spine, chased by a feeling of dread. His eyes fell to the envelope before he picked it up, touching the wax seal and tracing the middle J.

  What’s going on, Padre?

  He turned over the heavy cream parchment, broke the seal, and took out a piece of folded paper tucked inside, the scent of bergamot and tobacco escaping. A smile spread across his face, the memory of sipping Earl Grey tea and smoking cigars in Father Ferraro’s study in Oxford surfacing and offering him relief. He scanned the letter quickly:

  My Dearest Alex,

  By now, you’ve met your new friend, Tara Rodriguez. If you trust me with your life, trust her just the same. You will need her for what I need from you.

  The Order has sent out similar notices to a handful of Fidelium members to gather for a secret conclave in Byzantium at the site of the first of its kind. Ichthus is facing a new threat of grave consequence and must assemble on the morrow to address it. By the time you receive this note, forces beyond us will have set into motion a series of events announcing a new religious order, Panligo World Assembly. This entity represents the strongest threat the Church has faced in half a millennium, a threat that demands a response, especially to our fallen brethren. Hence the hastily assembled meeting. There are talks of apostasy—and more.

  We need you, Ichthus needs you. I need you. No one can know about this meeting, not even Zakaria. Please, make haste, and burn this notice at once.

  ~Father Jim

  Alexander glanced at Tara from just above the cream parchment, her face still steely and transfixed. He caught himself holding his breath, his lungs beginning to ache from the lack of oxygen. He inhaled sharply and sighed, reaching for the lighter near the cigar humidor sitting on his desk. He lit Father Jim’s note, setting it next to his chair on the stone tile floor. The foreign smell of burning paper delighted his senses as it curled upwards, the flaming fingers eating away any traces of the urgent request.

  He snapped the lighter closed and leaned back in his chair, its back creaking in protest.

  “Well?” Tara asked, forehead wrinkled upward and eyes opened in wonderment.

  “He wants me to trust you,” Alexander said, staring back.

  “Trust me. With what?”

  “With my life. The Order has called a meeting in Byzantium, and apparently you’re my chaperon.”

  The priest stood, grabbed his leather satchel off his desk, and began throwing items from his office into it—his slate, his Bible, and his prayer book.

  She cleared her throat and folded her arms as Alexander continued rushing around his office. “Byzantium? Care to be more specific, considering that’s, like, all of East Asiatica and Arabia-Persia.”

  “At the site of the first of its kind,” he said, continuing to pack.

  “The site of the first of its kind? Alright, Mr. Cryptic, you gotta give me more here if this whole chaperoning relationship is going to work.”

  Alexander put his bulging bag down in a huff. “Yes, the site of the first of its kind. The first conclave of Ichthus happened nearly two thousand years ago outside Constantinople. The first Council of Nicea.”

  “Talk about making a statement with your secret meeting location,” Tara mumbled. “What did the rest of the letter say?”

  He stopped packing again, pausing to consider whether he could trust this unknown stranger.

  “Hello? The Fidelium sent me for a reason,” she said, planting her arms at her hips. “They don’t send people like me on a whim. So you’re gonna have to trust me. Because, Father, I’m all you’ve got for wherever and why ever we’re going.”

  “Did you watch the news today?” Alexander said, relenting.

  “No, what happen? Another bombing?”

  “Have you heard rumors of something called Panligo World Assembly?”

  “Panligo? No. What’s that?”


  “Apparently a new religious order, an order to end all orders. Several prominent leaders within the dominant religious faiths got together on OneWorld News to announce their disassociation with their respective faiths to build a new one called Panligo. It’s the craziest thing I heard all year!”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. So, what, the Mohammedan Ayatollah and the Israelite High Priest are now buddy-buddy?” Tara asked in confusion.

  “Apparently. But that’s not all.”

  “Why? What’s that?”

  “Members of our own Ministerium were there.”

  “What?” Tara said in drawn-out disgust.

  “Yeah. What’s worse, one of my former classmates from seminary was there. Apollos Nicolai.”

  “Apollos?” Tara said, spitting out the name. “Doesn’t surprise me in the least. That Germanian bishop went off the deep end months ago. Heretic as far as I’m concerned.” She turned her head and literally spat.

  “You just spat on my floor,” Alexander said as he searched for the landing zone.

  “That guy is a snake.”

  “Technically, he’s our snake. And we need to make haste, because we’re supposed to join the Fidelium tomorrow.” Alexander turned off the lamp on his desk and walked over to close the blinds behind his drawn curtains.

  “Hey, listen,” Tara said, grabbing Alexander’s arm as he began to walk toward the door. “I hear you’re friends with the guy, Apollos.”

  “Was friends with the guy. That was a while ago.”

  “A few years ago, from what I hear. Can I ask what happened?”

  He stared through Tara, eyes squinted and lips pursed. “Let’s just say, we had a falling out. He went his way, I went mine.” He turned toward the door from centuries past and heaved it open. “We best not miss the last transport call if we’re going to make it in time.”

  Tara stood, arms folded, as Alexander left her. She sighed, not accustomed to following behind free-will protectees. She had been personally tapped by Cardinal James Ferraro, as he was known within the Fidelium—a small, some would say, secret sect within the Ministerium of Ichthus hierarchy—to find, retrieve, and protect Father Zarruq. The finding part was easy, as well as the retrieval part, surprisingly. When she got the assignment, she had anticipated the protect part would be as well, thinking the job would be an easy financial get. After all, who would harm a priest? But after news of Panligo and rumors of more bombings on the way, now she wasn’t so sure.

  She caught up to Alexander as he entered the great hall. “Father,” she called out as he was about to speak with Zakaria. “Can I have a word?” She could sense him roll his eyes as she saw his shoulders drop. He shuffled over to her with a questioning look.

  “What?”

  “I wanted to know what you were going to tell your assistant. Cardinal Ferraro said that under no circumstances could we tell anyone where we were going.”

  “He’s my assistant. I can’t lie to him. What do I tell him?”

  “The truth. That you’ve been called away on urgent business and will be gone a few days. Leave it at that.”

  Alexander paused, tapping his shoe on the floor. “Alright, wait here.”

  He walked over to a confused Zakaria who kept looking at Tara with suspicion standing a few feet away. He said, “She works for the Fidelium. Apparently, I’ve been summoned and I need to leave for a few days.”

  “Summoned? Why? Where are you going?” Zakaria asked with furrowed brow, eyes darting back to Tara with more suspicion.

  “Relax,” Alexander said, putting his hand on his assistant’s shoulder. “Just some business I need to take care of. Which means you need to fill in for Thursday Mass while I’m away. And depending how long this takes, you may need to take care of Sunday as well.”

  This revelation seemed to unnerve young Zakaria more than the uninvited guest. He hadn’t led Mass on his own before, and certainly not an entire service. He looked down at the floor and began rubbing his hands together.

  Alexander laughed. “You’re not nervous, are you, Zak? You’ll be fine. You’ve seen me do it a hundred times.”

  “It’s one thing to see you do, another to do it!”

  “Oh, bother! Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.” Alexander looked at Tara and motioned for her to come along. He started walking toward the small chapel to exit through the back. “If you need me, feel free to call,” he said before leaving.

  The two reached his parish home, the door whooshing open as they arrived.

  “Wait here while I get some things,” Alexander instructed.

  He set his satchel on his dining room table on his way to his bedroom. Once inside, he headed for his bathroom, opening the medicine cabinet with purpose. He grabbed an unmarked box the size of a packet of gum and released the lid. Thin ribbons of florescent, translucent wafers were stacked inside.

  On the street, the synthetic narcotics that went for a few Republic Merca credits a pop had been crudely nicknamed “hosts,” after the thin unleavened wafers that served as the memory-marker of Christ’s Body, broken on the cross for the sins of the world. Narcowafers were what they were actually called on the street, going for less than the packet of gum they mimicked. Though illegal, the Tripolitanian streets were flooded with them, servicing a ready market for the relief they brought upon contact with saliva.

  One even priests apparently frequented.

  Alexander cursed himself for his weakness, not to mention his seeming sacrilege at imbibing from something so crudely associated with the Eucharist. But he didn’t care. He needed a fix. So he peeled one off and set it in his large hand. He paused, then peeled off one more before snapping the case closed. He took a deep breath and looked into the mirror. A tremor overtook his clenched hand as he stared at himself. He could see his eyebrow twitching from the weight of the morning.

  Anxiety had run in his family. But his father didn’t believe in medicating it. Said a Christian didn’t need anything but prayer and the Holy Spirit to find relief. Unfortunately, that didn’t work for his mother, who overdosed on pain medication after a strong bout of depression just before university. Since his mother’s death, the feeling of helplessness and insecurity had strengthened its resolve, sending him to secretly self-medicate when he started his seminary graduate work at Oxford. Not often, but enough that he knew where to find it on the street when he needed to.

  Mental health was a strict requirement for ministerial service, and any revelations of his severe, crippling condition would have invalidated his chances of ordination, much less parish life. Hiding his illness from his father had been easy. Hiding it from Father Jim and others had been a challenge Alexander had learned to navigate through more under-worldly means. Means that probably would have invalidated his future in ministry more than his mental illness itself.

  Alexander pressed the tabs against his tongue and closed his eyes, the narcotic release instant, the relief more than welcomed as his mind filled with tingling clarity. He threw the tiny box in a weekend bag, along with a few days’ worth of clothes. He hoped he wouldn’t be gone longer than that, but his gut told him otherwise.

  “Barnabas, I’m leaving for a few days,” he shouted as he snatched his satchel off the dining room table.

  “And what, pray tell, do you want me to do about that?” the AI replied.

  “Lock up and keep away the robbers, you mouthy contraption!”

  “No need to get snippy with me, Father Zarruq. Is everything alright?”

  The door whooshed open. Tara walked through, but Alexander paused to consider the question in the threshold.

  “I hope so, Barnabas,” he said before stepping out into the emerging humid afternoon, his sinuses feeling surprisingly better.

  The door whooshed close behind him as he and his new partner hustled across the hardened beige dirt that held the secrets of the faith he was leaving to protect.

  Chapter 4

  Alexander and Tara rode in silence through the winding, barren Trip
olitanian countryside to Tripoli for their journey across the Mediterranean toward the ancient town of Istanbul, now Byzantium. While the Roman Empire had blanketed the known world with brick roads, one of the first initiatives Solterra undertook was a massive reconstruction project replacing many of the simple asphalt and concrete thoroughfares across the Republic with superconducting roads built for ultramodernism and introducing cars that floated above the ground and moved without friction. Like most personal-sized vehicles of the era, theirs was a small magnacraft driven by an AI humanoid along this magnetized blacktop courtesy of the Republic.

  It still felt like science fiction to Alexander even as they trundled along the road along with others, but such was life in an age of promised prosperity and progress. Soon, the humanoid brought them to the deep submergence vehicle station on the northern tip of Alkebulana. Father Zarruq’s stomach turned at the thought of the rough undersea road ahead, but the DSV was the primary mass transit option post-Reckoning, planes having been abandoned for a century after the world’s climate broke from too much CO2 and the oil reserves finally depleted.

  Again, that was Solterra’s official story. But discerning minds thought it was more about controlling how people moved about the Republic through carefully curated transportation access points than anything to do with power or pollution. Such was life under the watchful eye of Solterra—all ‘For Humanity!’ of course.

  Tara bought two tickets for Byzantium while Alexander suspiciously eyed the hundreds of people crowding the city seaport near a fountain undulating in rotating shades of red, the light mingling with the blue of the ocean gleaming above through reinforced polycarbonate glass. Early evening commuters retiring for home, tourists between DSV stops, moms with after-school kids in tow mingled together along with Solterra humanoids keeping guard and others scampering off to complete their tasks assigned to them by the Republic.

  He also eyed his new companion, noticing her curved features accentuated by her tight-fitting black polyester outfit across the way at the ticket booth. His ancient profession generally still frowned upon priests marrying, men and women alike, though that hadn’t stopped his father from marrying his mother. The only bride they were to have was the Church, the Bride of Christ. Entertaining the thought of another was something Alexander had considered from time to time, but not seriously. Perhaps Tara could change his mind.