by J A Bouma
Mostly, he could see it in the eyes of his precious parishioners. The mothers and fathers who worried for the faith of their children. The children who faithfully entered the front door of church life through childhood, only to swiftly exit through the back door once adults. The once on-fire-for-Jesus parishioners who now carried deep doubts brought on by the newest advances in science and the rising tide of nontheists and pantheists and polytheists and every other theist who challenged the historic teachings of the Church about faith, life, and everything in between. They came because they’d always come. The Church was part of their identity. But looking out into his vibrant congregation each week, he could see that a thinning of their belief was happening, like too little butter spread sparingly over a piece of toast.
And he was worried. Had been for some time. It was an unvoiced worry that simmered, one he soaked with bottles of his new pomegranate hobby and translucent narcowafers. Selfishly, he worried about his profession, wondering how much longer he’d be employed, a practicality that tended to dominate his anxiety. He worried that he’d made the biggest mistake of his life spending eight years in a university program to satisfy his domineering, now-dead father. He worried about the secret doubts that needled his own heart, like yeast that had worked itself into a batch of dough ever so slightly over the course of the past few years and was now fermenting a rising cloud of unease within. And then, of course, the state of Ichthus itself. The Church’s place in the world and its perseverance in the face of increasing persecution and confrontation by the Republic, not to mention the increasing threats from inside Ichthus by the likes of Apollos Nicolai and Dominic Weiss.
A jolt of unease ricocheted up his spine as he lingered on the multi-tentacled roots that drove his anxiety. He adjusted his posture as they rumbled on, continuing to meditate and stew on the maelstrom of conditions pressing in against Ichthus, his mind synapsing from thought to thought in sync with the vehicle.
Then another thought needled its way into the mix. A saint, actually. Saint Jude Thaddeus, author of the letter to ancient Judean churches that bears his namesake.
He considered the audacious claim the apostle made, that the Christian faith—the one he was now journeying a quarter of the world away for—was a once-for-all faith entrusted to God’s holy people, the Church of Jesus Christ. He wondered about that, wondered if it was a once-and-for-all given faith that still mattered now as much as it did a hundred years ago, a thousand years ago, nearly two millennia ago when the Church gathered in the town he was traveling to hammer and hone that once-for-all-faith.
Now to be sure, the faith had grown up and matured over time. But this development was less a caterpillar transforming into a butterfly and more like a slithery snake shedding skin as it aged. Or perhaps more like a tree, Alexander wondered, growing taller and widening its girth, its rings bearing witness to its age and wisdom, yet remaining a tree all the same. He considered this analogy as they continued trundling along the increasingly unsteady roads toward their backwoods destination, feeling that much of the same was true of the Christian faith as well. Through generations, the once-for-all faith entrusted to Ichthus had grown up. It had widened in girth and developed large boughs that reached high into the sky as a witness to God’s movement to rescue and re-create this world through Jesus Christ.
What if Jude was right? That there was a once-for-all faith entrusted to God’s holy people? And that faith was as relevant to him and his parishioners back in Tripolitania as it was back before the Great Reckoning? If it was, then whatever forces and currents churning beneath the surface through the march of history had to be confronted, and in force.
Alexander lurched forward as the gruff, grande humanoid brought the car to a hard stop, a plebe as they were affectionately known among the human types for being of the lower class AIs in the Republic.
“Iznik,” he said. “You said triple. And only credits of the Republic. That’s 681.”
“681?” Alexander blasted. “That’s highway robbery!”
“Alex, it’s fine,” Tara said, playing interference.
“Hey, I drove you 227 kilometers. You no call me robber, doggy!”
“Doggy my…” he trailed off mumbling. “We don’t have to take this.”
“Alex! I got this! Get out. Let’s go.”
Alexander unfolded himself out of the vehicle in a huff as Tara paid the driver the Republic Merca credits, the currency of Solterra.
“Here’s 700. Thanks for your trouble.”
“Thank you, little missy. Be safe.”
The sleek yellow vehicle hovering just above the parched land rattled before lurching forward and lumbering away, the front left side slanting dramatically.
Chapter 6
Nicea, Arabia-Persia.
“What was that all about?” Alexander complained. “That guy was crazy.”
Tara said, “Relax. What difference does it make? We’re here. Stop bellyaching and let’s get on with it.”
He folded his arms and scanned the new ground zero of their journey. Iznik, the ultramodern town that still carried the scent of the forgotten ancient one the Church has known as Nicea.
The ancient town that had served as a significant birthing station for Ichthus two millennia ago was enveloped in a hazy darkness, a thick canopy of stars and full moon above offering the only respite. After the Reckoning, electricity was harder to come by because of the ban on certain fuels. So smaller towns had a difficult time finding enough power for streetlights, even with all the technological advancements in the past century. Putty-colored, crumbling edifices stood in humble adoration of Nicea’s Christianity-defining past. They stood side-by-side with the ultramodern, sleek round buildings that had come to define the 22nd century.
The cabbie had dropped the pair off in the town center where a fountain bubbled and spit a spout of water in a dull-gray metal pool. Across the way, a convenience store stood vigil for late-night snackers. Fueling stations had ceased to exist a century ago when the last of the world’s oil reserves were exhausted. Solar powered vehicles with their century-lasting batteries no longer needed the common fixtures of life from previous eras.
A Coca-Cola sign cast a large crimson blanket over the dimmed parking lot, reminding Alexander that while the march of history had brought massive changes to the world, things really hadn’t changed all that much. Yes, plenty of things had changed over the past several centuries; the world’s love of Coke had not. The soft red glow reflected off the dancing fountain where Tara and Alexander sat to plot their next move, a warm breeze carrying the stench of burning rubber and garbage making his stomach turn.
“Didn’t the note offer a meeting location once we arrived?” Tara interrogated.
Alexander shook his head. “Just to go here. Nothing else. This is just great...” He paced, raking a hand through his thick hair. “We’re stranded in Nicea, of all places. Armpit of Arabia-Persia.”
“Hey, show some respect for the birthplace of Ichthus. And besides, at least we’ve got Coke next door,” Tara grinned as she followed his pacing.
“This isn’t funny. What do we do now?”
“Obviously, Cardinal Ferraro and the others didn’t tell you more specifics because they wanted it that way. It wasn’t a mistake. Which means they were ready to help us fill in the blanks once we arrived to get us to the location of the conclave.”
“But how?” he moaned.
Across the plaza, a tall figure with a wide girth emerged from the shadows of the bright red Coca-Cola sign, catching Alexander’s attention. Tara saw it too. It retreated farther back into its dark covering as the two edged toward its direction. They couldn’t quite make it out, but it looked like the cloaked figure was motioning them to follow. It slinked farther back after a final wave beckoning them to follow behind the convenience store, out of reach of prying eyes.
“Come on,” Tara said, taking a step toward the mysterious figure.
Alexander grabbed her arm. “Wait. We just tr
aveled more than half a day to the middle of nowhere at the beck and call of a cryptic note. Now you want us to follow some cloaked figure into the shadows behind a convenience store? Are you crazy?”
“Whoever that is over there was obviously expecting us. He waved us over. Seems like the only thing we’ve got to go on right now.” She started walking away, extending her arm for him to follow. “Don’t worry. I’ve got your back.”
He hesitated, looking back at the darkened, bubbling fountain, finding some measure of refuge in the spot, however exposed it was. He looked back toward the glowing red building, his anxiety pulsing quicker through his veins. He strained to see any more movement or sign of reassurance. He found none.
Alexander sighed, then relented, joining Tara in crossing the deserted town square.
They crunched across loose gravel and slipped behind the Coca-Cola sign to avoid detection, looking into the convenience store to make sure no prying eyes caught their invasion. The attendant had his back to them while watching something on his slate. They continued on toward the back.
Tara began to slow her pace, her body positioning into a pose that Alexander could only guess was the result of years of training—and probably years of battle. She also withdrew a handgun concealed in her back, a revelation that was surprising considering the Republic had outlawed the right to carry firearms.
The presence of the weapon unsettled the priest, yet comforted him at the same time. He stood behind her as she took the lead, slowly, deliberately passing the crimson-dappled side wall and a lone magnacraft resting next to it.
Suddenly, a door flung open, sending Tara to the ground on her haunches, gun raised and ready for business. Alexander jumped behind her, instinctively raising clenched fists.
The man, who had just relieved himself in the outdoor restroom, was as shocked as they were. He threw his hands up and uttered a string of panicked, incomprehensible words in the region’s tongue.
Tara sighed and stood, then dropped her arm holding the weapon. She put out a steady hand to calm the frightened older man, offering a string of words from the same tongue.
The man relaxed, then scurried to the vehicle parked a few feet away. It hummed to life and lifted off the pavement, then it eased out and made a hasty exit, dust pluming from behind with a whoosh.
Alexander heaved several breaths and stood. “Where did you learn to do that?”
“Do what?” Tara said with measured calmness.
He gestured, “Walk and crouch and talk and…all of that?” Then he whispered, “And that gun? What if Solterra finds out?”
She shrugged. “Ferraro and the Fidelium sent me here for a reason. I’m good at what I do. And this,” she said, turning the weapon over in her hand. “That’s for protection. Ministerium-issued.”
She didn’t wait for a response, continuing forward toward the back to discover what else lay ahead, her weapon stretched outward and ready for anything else.
Alexander followed close behind, glancing around him as they turned behind the convenience store.
It was much darker. A chain-linked fence ran along the back, separating the store from a large concrete apartment complex leftover from eras past. Candy wrappers and empty cans littered the dirt ground pockmarked by patches of struggling weeds. Tara nearly slipped on an empty glass beer bottle as she slowly padded forward.
Movement caught their attention several meters away.
She stopped, holding her hand up for Alexander to do the same. They both stood still, waiting for the mysterious form to make a move.
Several moments ticked by, punctuated by the priest’s heavy breathing. Finally, the tension broke.
“I must say, I hadn’t realized I trained such a scaredy-cat,” a deep, Britannia-accented voice mocked from the shadows.
Alexander instantly recognized the voice. He smiled and sucked a large breath of air in exhaustion, knowing his professor, mentor, and godfather was their incognito figure.
“Padre!” he said in relief. He ran forward as Tara stowed her gun at her back.
Father Jim walked out of the shadows, a tall man with a generous gut and long, gray shoulder-length hair, face framed by a trimmed but long gray beard. He was wearing the thick, all-black vestments of the Ministerium, accented by crimson piping around the sleeves and collar. He wore a wide smile with arms opened to embrace his former student.
“You scared the crap out of us!” Alexander exclaimed after they embraced. “What are you doing here?”
“Sorry about that. And it sounds like you scared the crap out of someone yourself,” Father Jim chuckled. “I wanted to make sure you were greeted and escorted by a friendly face. Hello, Tara, my dear.”
“Hey, Cardinal Ferraro. And can I be clear, you didn’t scare the crap out of me.”
Alexander shot her a look as they walked through the crimson light back toward the fountain. Father Jim chuckled again, wrapping his left arm around Alexander’s shoulder as they continued walking. “Alex has always been a bit jumpy, haven’t you, my boy?”
“Thanks, Padre. So this conclave you’ve dragged me a quarter of a world away for—what’s this all about, anyway?”
“Yes, thanks for coming on such short, cryptic notice. And sorry our reunion is being forged under such mysterious circumstances. We’re heading to the Church of Dormition, a restored 1500-year-old Greek Orthodox church. The rest of the Fidelium has been arriving all day. Mother Kayo is especially excited to see you, Alex.”
“Kimura Kayo?” Alexander said with a start at the mention of the Christian leader from the lunar nation. “This conclave must be serious to call bishops all the way from Lunattica.”
“Indeed, it is. They’re coming in from all over the world—and beyond.” Father Jim paused at the front door of his waiting vehicle. “It’s that serious. Now get in, it’s only a short drive.”
As they started driving, Tara withdrew a mobile phone from one of her pockets, a long thin device made of the same hardened sapphire glass as Alexander’s slate.
“What are you doing?” Alexander questioned.
“Alerting the Fidelium that we arrived safely and are on our way.”
“Good idea,” Father Jim said as he drove.
“Device, send a message to my friend at the Fidelium,” Tara commanded as she glanced over at Alexander, who was staring out the window at the passing darkened landscape. “It should read: We’ve arrived safely at Iznik and are heading to the Church of the Dormition. See you soon.”
Her mobile device complied and sent her message off to her Ministerium contact. She slid the device back inside a black leather jacket and stared out the window herself.
“So why am I here, Padre? What’s happened?” Alexander said.
Father Jim sighed, staring forward as he commanded the magnacraft to drive itself. He turned to address his former student. “I’m afraid these are dark times for the Church, my boy.”
“You said that in your note, but what makes now any different from the past?”
Father Jim paused, considering his words, and glancing at Tara as she continued staring out the window, seemingly unengaged in their conversation. “I can’t go into detail until we gather with the full conclave, you understand. But let’s just say, we’ve got challenges on multiple fronts that are now demanding a response from the keepers of the faith.”
“Like Panligo.”
“Like Panligo.”
Alexander paused and stared at the bag that he had been clutching. “I saw Apollos on the OneWorld News report on stage with several other Christian leaders, and alongside the Mohammedan Ayatollah and the Israelite High Priest, among others.”
The vehicle continued carting them forward on its own while its driver sat facing Alexander, eyes downcast at the mention of his other former student.
“Apollos…” Father Jim trailed off, choosing his words carefully, “has been on an interesting journey for some time now. One that began many years ago, along with your own if I recall, Alex.”
“Is he part of this new challenge, as you put it?”
“There are a number of actors in this Shakespearean tragedy, my son.”
Father Ferraro turned back in his seat to retake the reigns of his vehicle. A white round church with a cross-shaped nave and elongated apse and crowned with a gleaming dome appeared. Church of Dormition dated from perhaps as early as the end of the 6th century. It was destroyed in 1922, but later restored to its original glory before the Great Reckoning using surviving walls. Back in the day, it was one of the most architecturally important Byzantine churches in Asia Minor and managed to remain one of the few churches to survive Muhammedan transformation. It was originally adorned with beautiful multicolored Byzantine mosaics from the 11th century. The restoration meticulously restored those original aesthetics while reinforcing it with ultramodern architecture.
The church gleamed in the full moonlight that rained down from the clear, cloudless night. It stood as a beacon of hope during these turbulent ecclesiastical times, a lighthouse guiding the arriving keepers of the faith.
On their approach, Alexander wondered what they would find inside. Whether the site it memorialized would serve once again as a rock upon which Ichthus could rebuild itself and find stability during these dark, tumultuous times.
They were about to find out.
Chapter 7
Father Jim drove around behind the church through a corridor of lush cypress trees, their canopy of leaves hiding the moonlight and concealing the entrance to a passageway that led deep underneath the church grounds. The car zoomed through the narrow entrance and slumped down into the passage, taking the passengers through a winding tunnel bathed in white light before arriving at a large car park where several similar vehicles had already arrived.
Alexander eased out of the vehicle, offering a hand to Tara. She took it and stepped out onto the sterile concrete floor. Father Jim did the same and motioned for his companions to follow. He led them toward a set of frosted double doors, their glass edged with chrome.
