The Apocalypse Script

by Samuel Fort

  Chapter 10 - Paupers in a Limo

  The helicopter that transported them from Steepleguard to Denver was nothing like the Blackhawk helicopters Ben had grown accustomed to in Afghanistan. Ridley’s helicopter had the interior of a private jet, complete with wet bar. The flight took only minutes and they were met at a private airport by a limousine. When they were inside the vehicle, Lilian raised the privacy screen and turned to Ben looking very serious.

  “Ben, I shall refer to you as Mutu, especially in front of other Nisirtu. You must refer to me as Asatu from time to time.”

  “I am committed to the charade,” the other occupant responded, palms up in surrender. “So, we just flew down the mountain in a luxury helicopter from a hotel the size of a small city that is home to one man, and you hired a male model to act as surrogate for me in London to get me this suit – which is very nice, by the way.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “But you told me earlier that the Nisirtu do not use money. You can understand why I have trouble reconciling that statement with what I’m seeing. You certainly appear to have money. Someone just deposited a lot of money into my bank account.”

  Lilian shook her head. “I assure you, Ben, Nisirtu do not carry cash, credit cards, or debit cards. We have no bank accounts. We do not own property, at least not in the fragmented sense that you understand ownership. We have no possessions other than Nisirtu-specific heirlooms that serve ritual functions. Nisirtu are quite literally penniless. In practice, we do not even touch money. It is considered unclean. Only the Ardoon-” she stopped.

  “The slaves,” said Ben. “You mean non-Nisirtu, I imagine?”

  “That’s right.” She gauged his reaction and seemed surprised at the lack of one. “In my world, you are either Nisirtu or Ardoon. A master of the world or a slave. Only slaves use money.”

  Nodding toward her, Ben said, “Then who paid for that necklace you’re wearing? It has to be worth, what, a hundred thousand?”

  “It was provided to me by Mr. Fetch.”

  “And where did he get it?”

  “I have no idea,” she said. “I described to him the necklace I wanted and he obtained it for me.”

  “But you own it now.”

  “Not in the sense you mean. I merely wear it.”

  “Your mansion?”

  “It’s not mine. Nor is the car I drive or the clothes I am wearing. All were provided by Mr. Fetch. As was the money deposited into your accounts.”

  “I see. You simply tell Mr. Fetch what you need and he provides it.”

  “That is his job, Ben. It is the job of every fetch. It is, I’m sure you realize, a title, not a name. There are thousands of men assigned that title, and thousands of women who bear the title, ‘Miss Fetch.’ They are Ardoon who hunger for power and money. Like most of the underclass, they confuse the two. They serve us to get and control more of what they love, though none of them realize they are serving the Nisirtu.”

  He said, “But if you don’t use money how are the people you call ‘fetches’ compensated?”

  “We provide them with new and useful connections, insider information, access to important people or technologies, that kind of thing. It is all done indirectly and discreetly, of course. Consequently, fetches are never certain exactly why fortune smiles upon them while they are in our employ, but the fact that it does conditions them to behave properly.”

  Ben said, “Alright, I can almost grasp how fetches work. There at least seems to be some reciprocity in those arrangements. But this class-warfare thing bothers me. Masters and slaves? I don’t care how rich the Nisirtu are, or powerful, that’s a remarkable level of arrogance.”

  Lilian smiled. “Only if it is untrue, Ben. Anyway, that belief is immaterial to your assignment. I’m only revealing our beliefs to you because soon you’ll be interacting with other Nisirtu and I’d rather you hear them from me than others.”

  Letting out a deep breath, he said, “Fine. If you guys want to be pompous asses, that’s your business.” He decided to take the conversation in a safer direction, saying, “Ridley told me that you have chapters that you call kingdoms. Is tonight’s meeting open to all chapters, or just yours?”

  “Ours, you mean.”

  “Right.”

  “It is open to any Nisirtu in good standing. There are ten kingdoms. A Family is in charge of each kingdom, also called a House. The terms Kingdom, House, and Family are somewhat interchangeable.”

  “You have kings and queens, that kind of thing.”

  “That’s right. Most often a king is called Anax and a queen is called Annasa. The Nisirtu are ancient. A ruler with subjects is the natural order of things.”

  “What chapter are you – are we in?”

  “We are in the Fifth, but don’t let that mislead you. Fiela is in the Tenth. All kingdoms exist in all places. A kingdom is defined by its membership and the Family that rules it, not by geographic boundaries. Just as you will have Democrats, Republics, Libertarians, and so forth in one city, so you will also have members from each of the Ten Kingdoms. Ziggurats like the one we are going to now are meetings of nobles and high-ranking scribes of the various kingdoms.”

  “You said ‘kingdoms in good standing?’ That implies some are not.”

  “That’s right. For reasons we don’t have time to go into right now, the Third, Seventh, and Ninth Kingdoms are in rebellion. Those three kingdoms form what is called the Maqtu. The Houses in good standing are called simply ‘the Seven’. I am, and you are, a member of the Seven.”

  “Rebellion sounds rather militaristic.”

  “It is the proper term. They war against us and thus we war against them.”

  “Court battles, you mean.”

  The woman laughed. “Yes, but not in the sense that you mean. I mean we are killing one another. With guns or whatever else is available.”

  “Seriously.”

  “Seriously. Why do you think Fiela fights as she does? She’s been fighting the rebels for a decade, since she was a child. Did you not see the scars on her legs?”

  The researcher stewed on that. “Sounds almost like a Mafia thing.”

  “That is a fair analogy.”

  “You let children fight?”

  “Everyone does when push comes to shove, Ben. We have been shoved.”

  Ben was troubled by that, but said, “That might explain Fiela’s expertise. She’s a force of nature with a mop.”

  Lilian smiled. “She is Peth-Allati. A shadow horseman. The title originated long ago, when our warriors rode horses into battle. Peth-Allati, or Peth, are the Nisirtu equivalent of the ancient Knights Templar. She is an ardent believer in and enforcer of the faith, which in this case is the way of the Nisirtu.”

  “Which is that anyone who is not a Nisirtu is a slave.”

  “Which is that humanity benefits from the guiding hand of the Nisirtu and should not bite the hand that feeds it.”

  “And she seemed like such a nice girl…”

  “She is, really. So long as you aren’t on her bad side.”

  “I was joking, Lilian.”

  “I’m not. But here we are, Ben. We can continue our discussion inside.”