"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Turns out a major player in the business is someone you'd never expect."
"Who?"
"The church." He glanced at Jett. "You don't seem surprised."
Jett took an absentminded sip of his beer. "Which one?"
"Not sure. But I know someone who might have an answer for you. A minister in the Warrens named Donte."
"Think I can get an introduction?"
LeBlanc glanced at his wrist. "You sure can. Matter of fact, if we split right now, we can get us some of that spiritual healing."
"Go to a sermon?"
"Why not? Every man has a soul, Jett. Might as well take care of it from time to time."
Ⓥ
Minster Donte glared beyond the packed pews as if staring through the walls into the vice-filled streets of the city. "You might have come here expecting to hear of love and forgiveness. Maybe some simpering, watered-down talk of unity and submission."
He stared at the audience, feverish gaze sweeping across the room. "Well, I'm not in the mood for none of that right now."
The sweat-beaded crowd exclaimed in appreciation, some raising hands in agreement.
"I say again: I'm not in the mood for none of that. And why? Because we have been fleeced like sheep by greedy shepherds, left naked and futile, wretched and pitiful. Stretched out over the coals and roasted alive, left in the wastelands without a scrap of bread or a sip of water. And I, for one, am sick and tired of being treated like trash by the leaders that are supposed to be watching over us. I'm hot and angry, and I'm not taking it anymore."
He became more animated as the crowd roared their approval. "When we are oppressed, we raise our fists to the heavens and shout to God in pain and anger. We blame Him for our predicament and lose faith, then drift like anchorless ships battered by storm after storm. But would you blame the captain if you never lifted a finger to tie a sail or scrub a deck? If you never learned how to navigate, never even took a lesson in seamanship, never hoisted a barrel or plugged a leak, would you curse your captain with your last breath as you sank into fathomless waters? Only if you were a fool. Only the uncommitted think such thoughts."
He paused, gazing at the parishioners as if reading their thoughts. "Yes, faith without works is dead, family. Action is required in addition to prayer. Sacrifice is necessary. Our leaders have failed us, forgotten us while standing upon our bruised shoulders and broken backs. Hypocrisy must be met with truth, greed with unselfishness. Now is the time to pull the daggers from the backs of our fellows and plunge them into the breasts of the lustful, the gluttonous, the greedy, the wrathful, the heretics, the murderers, plunderers, warmongers, and tyrants. Yes, take your blades of truth and plunge them into the hearts of the fraudulent, the panderers and seducers, flatterers and false prophets, hypocrites, thieves, liars, imposters, traitors, betrayers, and oath-breakers. Only then will we experience the strength to lift ourselves from the limbo of weakness and poverty we've become mired in like quicksand. God offers us a lifeline, but it requires more than just belief. We have to take hold of it and pull ourselves out. The question each one of us has to ask is: will I do what is required when my time arrives?"
The crowd rose to their feet, applauding and exclaiming in loud voices. Jett stood in the rear beside LeBlanc, who clapped and whistled. Turning to Jett, he winked.
"The man puts on a good show, right?"
Jett studied the passionate minister, who had left the stage and shook hands with members of the adoring crowd. "You're right about that."
"Well, stick around. I'll get the two of you properly introduced."
Ⓥ
It took over an hour for Donte to finish greeting and encouraging the churchgoers. The time ticked away in Jett's mind; minutes he could have been spending elsewhere, trickling like sand between his fingers. When LeBlanc finally led him to the humble back office where Donte had retreated, they were met by a tall young woman with free-hanging dreadlocks and a stern expression.
"The minister has retired for the evening. Please come back tomorrow morning."
"It's all right, Raven," Donte said from inside. "Old friends are always welcome. Come on in, LeBlanc. Don't mind my daughter. She's naturally protective of me."
LeBlanc grinned when he entered the cramped office. "How'd you know it was me?"
"The cheap aftershave is a dead giveaway." Dante's eyebrows raised when he spotted Jett standing behind LeBlanc. "You brought a friend with you."
Jett stepped forward, extending a hand. "Jett Wolfe."
Donte stood and shook hands. "I know who you are, Mr. Wolfe. The work you've done at the Youth Haven is nothing short of admirable. Many in the community have spoken highly of you."
Jett noted that Donte was nearly his height, with a frame that revealed a sturdy build under his plain-cut suit. His close-cut hair was more silver than black, but his face was unlined, with chiseled cheekbones and a strong jaw.
Jett shrugged off the compliment. "I'm just watching over the fort, Minister. A lot more people than me are involved."
"A humble man, too. Pardon my saying so, but you look like a fighter to me. Ex-military, perhaps?"
"You're a good observer. I did serve in the past. It feels like ages ago."
"I thought so. Perhaps you'll visit one of my self-defense classes when you get some free time. I'm sure there's much you can share with the students."
"You teach self-defense?"
"There are many in this neighborhood who have had enough of being assaulted by gangs and muggers. I try to do what I can to prepare them for defending themselves. Unfortunately, finding good instructors is difficult, and Raven can only do so much."
Jett glanced backward, where she stood in the doorway as if there for protection. She gave him a challenging stare in response. "What—you don't believe I can fight?"
"I would never assume that, actually. Some of the most dangerous people I've known were women."
Donte gave her a fond smile. "My daughter is quite adept in several forms of martial arts. I've taught her all I know, but I'm afraid she's more talented than I ever was."
"You've been trained in combat?"
"I served in the United Haven Military in my youth. After an honorable discharge, I left the Havens entirely and never looked back. But the training I received has served me well from time to time. What did you think of tonight's address, Mr. Wolfe?"
"I'm afraid I only caught the tail end. Even so, I was surprised. I didn't expect Divinity sermons to be so … fiery."
A thin smile touched the minister's lips. "They usually aren't. I'm afraid I'm not a very good example of the so-called Divinity faith. I represent a more retro-styled manner of teaching."
"I thought the Church only allowed their branded style of ministry."
"It does. But who can enforce those things? That Word of God isn't something that can be restricted, and this isn't the first time a political entity functioning as an overbearing Church has tried to muzzle the message. It didn't work in the Dark Ages, and it won't work now. Sure, I face the possibility of being exposed and removed from my position, but position isn't important. Authority comes from only one source, and it isn't from some man in robes and a dome on his head. Nor can it be stamped out by authoritarian governments."
Jett nodded. "I've spoken to people who call themselves the Remnant who believe along those lines as well."
"They're well-meaning, but their self-imposed outcast lifestyle doesn't earn them many converts. I'm trying to reach the hearts of the people. A more mainstream message is necessary."
"Was that a mainstream message? It almost sounded like a call to arms."
Donte chuckled. "Allegorical language, Mr. Wolfe. It stirs the heart more than literal speech. One forms pictures in their heads that they carry with them. I certainly wouldn't incite the poor people in the Warrens to physically rise up against their oppressors. We have enough of that going on as it is."
LeBlanc grinned from where he leane
d against the wall. "You mean the vigilante activity. You're not a fan, I take it."
Donte paused in thought. "I believe it's a more complicated situation than most consider. I certainly wouldn't think to judge another man for making a stand against being attacked or coming to the aid of someone who's assaulted. The problem lies in falling into the cycle of violence with no escape. Such a thing can consume a man, twist him into the very thing he's fighting against. How long until he looks into a mirror and sees not his reflection, but that of a demon?"
A hush fell on the group when Donte's voice trailed off, and his eyes grew distant. Jett shifted, clearing his throat. "Um … I had a problem I thought you could help me with, Minister."
Donte looked up, blinking rapidly. "Of course. How can I be of service?"
Jett told him about the memory recycling and its trail back to the Holy Church of Divinity. "I can't imagine a reason why the church would be tied up in something like Immersion. I figured maybe you could shed some light on the subject."
Donte's expression darkened. "There is no light when it comes to that subject. I've heard bad things about the Manhaven church and Bishop Goodman. Things that, if true, will be rectified only by swift and righteous retribution."
Jett paused to consider Donte's statement. "Does that mean law enforcement will be investigating the bishop?"
"I doubt you'll get any answers from Goodman. You should ask him quickly, if at all. Because if what I suspect is true, he has something ugly hiding deep inside the walls of his venerated church. Should secular law enforcement become involved, it would be a mercy for him. But I'm afraid the judgment he faces will be of the more permanent kind. It's a biblical principle, after all—you reap what you sow. I'm no prophet, but I deeply suspect that his time is running out."
Ⓥ
Breaking into the Holy Church of Divinity posed no problem for Vigil. Neither did following Bishop Goodman from the shadows, concealed by the adaptive camouflage of his hooded cape. Goodman strode through the apse, passing the choir and massive Great Organ, crossing bars of bluish light streaming from the glow of Haven Core and shadows from the towering clerestories and gabled buttresses. The polished wooden choir stalls were empty, mute witnesses to the bishop's restless journey.
Passing behind the choir, he walked through the sanctuary, past the Magna Carta Pedestal and ornamental screens depicting scenes from the Old Testament. Goodman didn't spare a glance to the gleaming white marble alter, mosaic patterns on the floor, or the intricately detailed candlesticks and vases. His mind was occupied, his gait swift as he passed, robes whispering behind him. He strode through the crossing, where four enormous granite arches soared to the domed, dark stone ceiling. Goodman nodded absently to late-night parishioners and nuns as he passed, on his way to the rear of the crossing, where a fingerprint-enabled panel allowed him entry into the elevator to the basement. He pressed the button that lowered the elevator to the lower section.
Vigil made his move, streaking forward to thrust an arm in between the doors as they started to shut. At the same time, he deactivated his cloak, materializing out of thin air in front of the startled bishop. Shoving his way inside, Vigil clamped a hand over the bishop's mouth before he could scream. The doors shut, and the elevator made its descent to the basement.
Activating Intimidation Mode made Vigil's visor flash with crimson light and turned his voice into an electronic rasp. "Don't bother. I don't want to hurt a man of the cloth, but from what I've heard, you probably deserve it. So, no fast moves and no loud noises. Nod if you understand."
Goodman nodded.
"Good. Now, let's see what sanctimonious things you have going on under all the prayer and incense."
The doors opened, and they stepped out in the basement, which turned out to be a massive, renovated crypt with a set of chambers that covered nearly as much ground as the church above it. Vigil kept a hand firmly on the back of Bishop Goodman's neck, but he couldn't help but stare at the collection of artifacts stored there. A Greek amphitheater, cloaked in shadows, cold and empty. Stacks of antique pews and other furniture in need of repair. Statues of wooden angels and plaster gargoyles loomed, so that faces both saintly and demonic stared from the darkness.
Vigil recognized artifacts from his age: misshapen metal remnants from the World Trade Center, eerie reminders of a tragedy lost in the shadow of a far greater one: the Cataclysm. There were animal fossils, statues of saints, a massive hunk of quartz crystal. Doorways lined both sides of the walls, and Goodman came to an abrupt halt in front of one of them. Vigil glanced at him.
"Why are you stopping?"
The bishop looked up at him, face riddled by guilt. "This is what you wanted to see, isn't it?"
Red light glimmered from the cracks in the door, pulsing as if beckoning to reveal the secrets within. Vigil pushed Goodman forward.
"Open it."
He walked in, staring at the sinister setup inside. Rows of Immersion chairs were stationed on the floors, each one occupied by what looked like zombies at first glance. The skeletal figures sat as if dead, bodies emaciated and fed intravenously. Conical contraptions were strapped to their heads, each hosting thousands of tiny wires plugged into tall database towers next to the chairs. Crimson light effused from the overhead lamps, casting the room in hellish colors.
Vigil felt bile rise in his throat. "Who are these people?"
Bishop Goodman cringed. "It's not my doing. My hand was forced, understand?"
"Who are they?"
"Addicts. People who spent more time in Immersion than in reality, waisting all of their income on digital existence. When the money ran out, they do what any addicts do: beg, borrow, and steal until they are friendless, needy, and homeless. Many suffer from reality confusion—a state of disorientation where the subject can't tell what is real anymore. Some seek help for their disorder at centers where they can regain their equilibrium. That is why there are here."
"In the basement of a church where no one can see how they're doing or even who they are. They're obviously not getting help. So what is this?
"Amnesia."
"The memory drug?"
"The memory harvesting. The drug has to come from somewhere." Goodman's gestured helplessly. "This is the process."
Vigil's fists clenched. "How could you do this? You're supposed to stand for something. You're supposed to be a beacon of light in the world. How could you—never mind, don't bother answering. Are the other rooms like this too?"
"Yes. There are nearly a thousand donors."
"Donors? You mean prisoners."
Goodman's hand clutched his chest as if about to have a heart attack. "It's not my fault. I didn't want to do it. I wanted no part of this."
"I heard you the first time. Tell me what Janus has on you, and maybe we can work something out."
The bishop's eyes widened. "How did you—?"
"I know all about your little deal with the devil, Goodman. I figure you must be guilty as hell to stand by and allow this to happen. What have you done?"
Sweat dripped down Goodman's face. "I … can't talk about it."
"Isn't confession good for the soul? The sooner you talk, the sooner this can be over."
"No! I won't talk. There's nothing you can do. Nothing anyone can do. It's too late."
Brushing away, Goodman ran for the door. Vigil took a last look at the motionless bodies before turning to follow. When he stepped out of the room, he saw the bishop at the end of the chamber, frantically pressing the button to summon the elevator. More critical was the presence of several other figures who must have been called by a silent alarm. Vigil didn't think anything else could surprise him, but he stopped in his tracks.
The group of women were nuns. And they were armed to the teeth.
Twisting his wrists charged up his g-spans and made his fists glow electric-blue. "I don't want to hurt any of you, so why don't you set the guns down, and we can—"
The lead nun responded by opening fire with
a tac-rifle. Vigil cursed when struck in the chest, knocking him backward into a line of stone-carved saints. He blasted at the group with concussion rounds, but they scattered, flipping over antique furniture and running across the walls as if gravity didn't exist.
His digital assistant buzzed in his ear. "I ran a scan on your attackers. They are synthetic, so no need to hold back."
Vigil threw up an omni-shield to fend off a barrage of gunfire from a flanking nun. "Thanks, Proto. So, they're not human. Means they're probably the property of Janus."
Dropping the shield, he leaped at the nun as she reloaded. He seized her by the face, hoisted her upward, and slammed her into the wall with pulverizing force. She spasmed as sparks exploded from her shattered head, one eyeball popping out and hanging from wires. Never slowing, he drew his handgun and fired at another, blasting a sizzling hole in her midsection.
He never saw the one scrabbling across the ceiling until she dropped a heavy net on top of him.
His visor display flickered with static when the net fastened itself to the floor with auto-firing anchors. The tensile steel mesh hummed with galvanic energy, causing his suit's system to short out. The motors on the net's anchors whirred, tightening the mesh so that it pulled him to his knees. As he struggled against the metallic netting, one of the nuns stepped forward, looking down the barrel of her rifle. With her free hand, she tapped the side of her black-and-white headpiece.
"Intruder is secured. What are my orders?" Looking down at him, she nodded. "Affirmative." Without expression, she leveled the barrel at his visor.
"Wouldn't do that, yo."
The nuns turned at the sound of Spitfire's voice. She stood in the elevator entrance, glowing batons in her hands and a crooked smile on her lips. Her upper face was covered by wide goggles and a hood attached to the black-and-red cloak over her mesh armor jumpsuit.
The nuns spread out, firing at Spitfire, who leaped and flipped over the massive quartz crystal for cover. "Be nice if you'd quit being helpless," she shouted.
Vigil extracted a razor-edged cutting blade from his belt and sawed at the net, cutting through several strands of wires. "Be nice if you didn't get yourself killed talking trash."
Vigil: Inferno Season (The Cyber Knight Chronicles Book 2) Page 17