Apostasy Rising

by J A Bouma

  A shiver ran down his spine as a pair of the AI-human lookalikes that did the Republic’s bidding hustled past, their androgynous faces neither man nor woman set hard against something in the near distance and massive arms flexing for business, each bearing a Republic-issued rifle. He bowed his head low trying to avert their attention, his heart rate picking up pace at the scene.

  His head snapped up at the sound of screams echoing off the vaulted ceiling of polished steel and reinforced glass. The frantic cries were coming from a stout man with a shaved head not twenty feet away. The two humanoids had grabbed him by both arms. The man was leaning back toward the polished tile floor with defiant purpose, resisting their advance with more shouts in a foreign tongue, but it was no use. The Enforcers built with precision to exact ultimate control dragged the man with ease through the crowd of onlookers who paid him not a single glance at his pleas for help.

  Alexander took a breath and stood, raking a hand through his thick, wavy black hair in search of Tara. He hated crowds as much as he hated DSV travel. Parish life along the quiet bluffs of Tripolitania far outside the ultramodern city was much more his pace. And the incident was most unnerving, a portent of the dangers of the Republic that laid nascent.

  Through a part in the shuffling crowds, Tara emerged bearing a grin and two tickets. She walked over, handing Alexander his pass.

  “We board in an hour. And here, I forgot to give you this.” She handed him a small, thick packet.

  Alexander pulled out a sheet of folded plastic. He unfolded it, finding information digitally inscribed on its face. It read, “Ajeeb al-Zahrawi from Tripoli, married to Tahani al-Zahrawi.” Accompanying the line was a short bio. At the bottom of the packet sat a subcutaneous injector and a pair of contact lenses.

  “What is this?” he said in a panicked whisper, stuffing the envelope in his jacket and glancing around the vast space for fear that more Republic humanoids were lurking.

  “Precaution. We don’t know if anyone has been alerted to the conclave. And if anyone is watching, they’ll be watching for you, the regional Bishop of Tripolitania.”

  Alexander’s mind immediately jumped to the Tracker drone that circled his parish. His panic must have registered.

  “What’s wrong? Why that look?”

  Alexander shifted his gaze from the distance to his companion. “I didn’t think to mention it before, but a Tracker buzzed my parish after my morning prayer shortly before we met in my study.”

  Tara stepped closer, concern etched on her face. “Was it Solterra?”

  He raked a hand through his hair again, looking back toward where the stout man had been hauled away. He took a breath, then said, “I think so. It was black, round, and I heard the familiar pulsating whirl.”

  She frowned, then glanced behind her and around the station. “Then you definitely need to wear these, Father.” She jabbed his jacket, pressing the envelope with her finger.

  “But lying and deception? And on my way to a conclave of the Fidelium?”

  “I prefer to call it cloaking. We need to travel undetected. It’s all been arranged. The DiviNet record has been altered. You are Ajeeb, an engineer en route to business in Arabia-Persia.”

  “This is a bad idea,” Alexander hissed. “Does Father Jim know about this?”

  “Yes. It was his idea, actually. Now give me your index finger and give me back that envelope. We don’t have time to second-guess. We need to move.”

  “What about my other travel chip?” Alexander asked, holding up his finger while Tara glanced around the bustling seaport.

  “The electromagnetic force field in this new chip is more powerful than your previous model. It will render it inert.”

  “That’s comforting. Hope it doesn’t render my finger inert. Or my life, because if I’m discovered subverting the Republic, off to a reprogramming camp for me!”

  “Stop your whining and hold steady.”

  Tara held his long finger and positioned the small injector over the center of his print that swirled to a dot. A barely audible shi-chuh sounded as the injector sent the microscopic chip under Alexander’s skin.

  He winced, then rubbed it. He popped in the contact lenses with new retinal information, hoping this plot Tara and Father Jim had cooked up together wouldn’t spiral into a heaping pile of shattered glass and stone.

  The pair joined the other travelers, shuffling through the security queue. As they snaked their way toward the checkpoint, Alexander quickly read and crammed the new details of his fabricated identity into memory. His fingers began to stain the thin plastic with moisture as they drew closer to the checkpoint. He impulsively reached for his bag holding his fluorescent narcowafers but stopped when he remembered he wasn’t alone.

  Anxiety pulsed through his veins, his head feeling light and lungs barely finding breath. He put away the bio and concentrated on regulating his body, closing his eyes and breathing slow, deep breaths. He knew if he didn’t get his body under control, the Solterra humanoid ahead would pick up the sure-sign marks of deceptions. Which would trigger a situation he’d like to avoid.

  “Are you OK, dear?” Tara said loudly as they reached the front. “I know how much you hate undersea travel.” She wrapped her arms around Alexander’s waist, playing the part of a concerned wife before the awaiting audience of security personnel.

  Alexander picked up on her ploy and played along. He cleared his throat. “Yes, dear. But I’ll be fine.” He hesitated, then kissed her on the cheek. For the sake of their mission, of course. He smiled awkwardly and stepped over to a just-opened checkpoint, his doting wife in tow.

  “Finger and eyes,” the plump, balding, grimacing transportation safety agent commanded, giving the familiar opening refrain to sea travel. The agent looked more human the last time he remembered. The Republic must have put in for an upgrade.

  Alexander hesitated for a moment, then positioned his right finger on the sensor while staring into the eyes of the humanoid guard. The unit measured not only his pupils against the unique identifying marks in the DiviNet database but also indicators of deception, like pupil dilation and temperature. Alexander held his breath, then promptly began breathing again when he wondered if it would raise a red flag.

  The seconds ticked by as he stood face-to-face with the balding, still humanoid, its eyes lifeless and its doughy, unmoving silicone skin sporting day-old, graying stubble. Finally, it backed off and resumed its position.

  “Have a good trip, Mr. Ajeeb.” He offered a quick smile before returning to his grimacing pose.

  Alexander shuffled forward as his now-wife Tahani took her place. He sat down on a clear glass bench curving down toward the tile floor, eyes wide and linen shirt suddenly wet from perspiration, his taut nerves and muscles giving way to sweaty relief.

  He quickly opened his bag and withdrew the small capsule of narcowafers, concealing his movements from his partner. He flipped the lid to his tiny treasure box and peeled off a ready tab. Snapping the top back in place, he stuffed the container in his sack and placed the wafer on the roof of his mouth. He pressed his tongue against the ribbon of relief, the fresh taste of mint satisfying. His heart slowed as the drugs worked their magic, his head filled with a dizzying calm. Tara finally passed through security and hustled over to his bench.

  “What was that?” she asked.

  “Huh? Oh, I’ve got a dreadful headache forming. Migraine.” He squinted, pressing a forefinger to his forehead and letting out a groan.

  “Bummer. The trip won’t be of any help, that’s for sure. We better move. Our DSV leaves in thirty.”

  After checking in with the gate agent, the pair made their way into the large whale-like vessel encased in thick, polished chrome for maximum velocity under the Mediterranean’s surface when encased in its hydro bubble. Its engines hummed with quiet purpose. Dim, blue lighting guided them through the cabin lined with rows of seats of leather recliners and richly appointed private hideaways designed for maximum comfort dur
ing the speedy underwater voyage. They soon found their accommodations and slipped inside, settling into a cramped space near the back and closing the faux bamboo door as others filed past. Tara secured the door as Alexander stretched out on one of two plush purple velvet couches to settle in for the journey.

  Tara reclined on the other couch. As Alexander lay with eyes closed, breathing in rhythmic bursts, she couldn’t help but eye the thirty-something that lay across from her. His moppy, wavy hair flopped over his forehead, swooping off to the side. He had the build of an athlete, a soccer player or quarterback: tall, lean, and hard. His high cheekbones were accentuated by a long, hooked nose typical of men from North Alkebulana. She continued watching him breathe with one eye open, feigning sleep in case he suddenly awoke.

  “Is there something I can help you with, Tara?” Alexander said, interrupting her extracurricular gazing. “I can feel you looking at me.” He opened his left eye and turned his head just in time to see her closing her own eye.

  “What? Nothing!” she said sharply. “I was just making sure you were still breathing after your panic attack.”

  He smiled and turned his head toward her. “So what’s your interest in all of this intrigue? Who are you? And if Father Jim sent you, why haven’t I ever heard of you?”

  “My interest is your interest, Father. The preservation of Ichthus, the Church.”

  There was a crypticness to her reply that intrigued Alexander. He let it go, then sighed and said, “My father was Father. Call me Alexander. Or Alex, if you prefer.”

  He smiled slightly, flirtatiously. She narrowed her eyes and smiled back. “Alright, Alex. What’s your interest?”

  “My interest?” he said with confusion, rolling on his side toward Tara. “I’m the one who was summoned! I don’t have a blasted clue what’s going on.”

  “And yet here you are, at the beck and call of Father Jim.”

  His face tightened in defense. “Well, I trust Padre. And if he says it’s urgent…Plus, you didn’t see what he wrote.”

  “What did he write?”

  He hesitated, then shook his head. “No, he said not to say a word to anyone.”

  “Even to me?” Tara said with an edge of flirtation, rolling over on her side to match Alex’s position.

  Alexander considered Father Jim’s words that he shouldn’t tell anyone, not even Zakaria. But he didn’t say anything about his traveling companion. So what was the harm? He figured Tara already knew the details and wondered why she did not.

  He shrugged. “It’s like I said. The Fidelium has called a secret conclave at the site of the first great meeting of the Church at Nicea. They believe Panligo posses the greatest threat to Ichthus in centuries, especially our own brothers and sisters who are joining the assembly.”

  “Like Apollos.”

  “Like Apollos.”

  “Did it say anything else? Like what they’re planning?” Tara asked with eagerness.

  “Not much, only that there is talk about apostasy…and more.”

  “And more…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “Like, what, excommunication?”

  “Maybe. I’d imagine we’ll learn more in a few short hours.” He yawned and turned over, covering himself with a blanket that was draped over the back of the couch. “No more talk. My head is killing me. See you soon.”

  Tara continued staring at Alex’s back, admiring his long, nice V-shaped torso. She turned over herself and continued staring at the ceiling, considering Alex’s words.

  Chapter 5

  Byzantium, Arabia-Persia.

  Alexander crashed hard, the weight of the morning dragging him down deep into dreamland. After what seemed like minutes, he came out of REM, sensing the DSV gliding to a halt. The humming and slight vibrations that lulled him to sleep an hour ago ceased. He blinked his eyes awake to find Tara gathering their items to make ready their departure.

  “Hey there, sleepyhead. We’re here.”

  “Hey,” he answered, his throat thick with sleep, mouth chalky and tasting sour. His hair was matted on one side. He tried to smooth it back into place, but it was no use. He stood and gathered up his own belongings, then slung his bag over his shoulder.

  “Best to wait here until the others leave and be the last ones off.” She peered out of the cabin door to find a queue of people beginning to file out. “Did you sleep well?”

  “I slept fine. But should’t we get going?” Alexander looked at his watch, pacing the tight space.

  “Relax, Alex. We want to run into as few people as we can along the way. Besides, we’ve got plenty of time.”

  As the line dwindled, along with Alexander’s patience, Tara gave the all clear. They exited their cabin and brought up the rear, being thanked by the chipper attendants for riding the friendly seas with the Republic.

  The pair hurried through the crowded terminal to exit the seaport to the awaiting city above, the smell of the masses combined with stifling, humid heat sending Alexander’s stomach turning.

  Byzantium, the largest city in Turkey and provincial capital of Arabia-Persia, was the hub of the renewed, reformed empires from middle-to-end of the first millennia. Before becoming Istanbul in AD 1930, the city was originally known as Byzantium and later, more famously, as Constantinople, the city of Constantine the Great who christened it the new capital of the Roman Empire. It still stood as the second largest city in the world, bridging the East and the West along the ancient Silk Road, situated between the Black and Mediterranean Seas.

  The underwater seaport of Byzantium was one of the most beautiful in the continental region, borrowing from its Christian and Mohammedan history with a kaleidoscope of colors and symbols combined with massive, elegant, curved glass peering into the Sea of Marmara. Sunlight streaming through from the ocean above danced across the floor as Tara and Alexander exited through customs, ascending to the world above. It was dusk, the sun splashing a palette of burnt oranges and reds across the magnificent Hagia Sophia that dominated the center of the city, rising from a forest of trees like an otherworldly spaceship with its four missile-shaped cones and center domed structure, an emblem of the land’s ancient history and storied past. Meaning “Holy Wisdom,” the science-fictionesque structure first served as a Greek Orthodox basilica before becoming an imperial mosque. For centuries it has served as a museum, a testament to and overseer between the East and the West.

  “Let’s find a ride,” Tara said as they emerged out onto the surface of the bustling nighttime streets packed with people and magnacars in the familiar Republic-issued grey, electronic music a few blocks away combining with multi-colored lights along the main thoroughfare to set the tone for the evening.

  “Wait,” Alexander said, stopping. “You don’t have travel arrangements to Nicea? How do you know who we can trust?”

  “First, in public it’s Iznik,” Tara corrected as she searched for a humanoid ride-share magnacar. “You call it Nicea and you’re sure to draw suspicion. Second, it’s precisely because we don’t have travel arrangements that we’re most safe. A select group is coming to this meeting, all brought by handlers like me. If they each had chauffeurs or if we all rode together in nice cozy buses, there would surely be a leak. This way is safer. Trust me, Alex.”

  He took in a breath and relaxed his shoulders, easing the tension that had seized his upper body. “Alright. And sorry. I’m not used to this cloak and dagger business.”

  Tara reached for his arm and grasped it gently. “Well, I am. So trust me.”

  Her deep, mahogany eyes met Alexander’s and lingered a bit longer than he had expected, though not longer than he minded.

  She let go to flag down a rattling yellow magnacar hovering above the pavement, its sleek roof dented in places and paint beginning to chip.

  “Just the kind of transportation we need,” she muttered, smiling to herself in approval.

  “Where ya headin’, little missy?” a gruff, gravelly voice grunted from a plump humanoid with a goatee.
r />   “Iznik.”

  “That’s three hours away! Nice try, missy.” He started to drive off but was halted by Tara’s cries to stop.

  “We’ll pay double the fair, for my friend and me,” she said motioning to Alexander standing off to the side, scowling in skepticism.

  The gravelly, grande man eyed the two of them, back and forth. “Triple.”

  “Triple. And no questions asked.”

  “Hop in, missy. And your little dog, too.”

  Alexander recoiled at the characterization, but followed Tara inside. Before Alex could secure the door, the driver lurched forward, nearly sending him out the way he came. He quickly slammed the door and clung to his bag as he accordioned himself inside the small cabin, giving Tara a look of disdain and wishing he could press another ribbon of relief against the roof of his mouth. It filled with saliva at the thought, a Pavlovian response to his weak will.

  The driver lumbered through the city before making his way on the O-4, the local nickname for the main Anatolia Motorway stretching through industrial parks and barren wastelands. The pair said little on their journey, partly because of the interest in discretion, partly because Alexander was nauseous from the deep-sea journey combined with grande man’s high speeds and hairpin twists and turns.

  He settled into his seat as best he could and used the time to process Father Jim’s dramatic invitation in silence.

  Over the last few months, he had wondered whether events within the Church were coalescing into a global climatic head, even before the newest Panligo move. He could sense it in the rumblings and rumors coming out of the Ministerium with its news of the rising ranks of fallen priests. He could feel it with the tsunamic wave of persecution exploding around the world and in his backyard.