by J L Bryan
“You’re so mean. Now I want my kiss.”
As Ruppert pulled out of the parking lot, Madeline began transferring cookies into the tin.
FOUR
The Golden Tabernacle World Dominion Church occupied a sprawling twenty-acre complex in Pacific Palisades, including a long stripe of beach fenced off from the public. Ruppert drove past the security gate, which recognized his car and opened automatically, and onto the church’s network of brick boulevards lined with palm trees. They rounded a corner, and the church’s immense sanctuarium swelled into view, the great golden dome shimmering in the sunset.
“You’re not going to be late for Men’s, are you?” Madeline asked. She was checking her hair in the mirror. “Oh, I hope Doreathea isn’t there.”
“Which one is that?”
“Doreathea? The founder and president of Ladies’ Antiquing?” She cast an annoyed look at him, as if Ruppert should have memorized the membership lists of all her church groups. “She hates anyone under the age of sixty, I swear.”
“So join a different group.”
“I don’t like any of the other Wednesdays.”
“So stay home Wednesdays.”
“And let her win?” Madeline rolled her eyes and shook her head.
Ruppert took a side road and entered one of the two giant parking towers; his car informed him that a space was available on the fifteenth floor. He sped up the curling rampway.
They took the elevator down and followed a paved footpath through a garden, towards the looming golden dome.
“I’ll see you later,” Madeline said. “Play nice with the other boys.” She planted a chaste, perfunctory kiss on his mouth, then turned down another path towards Salvation Hall, a long canary-yellow building that made Ruppert think of a giant Twinkie. Salvation Hall belonged to the women’s clubs. There were buildings for every sex and age group: Angel Academy for the little girls, Daniel’s Den for the boys, and two others for adolescent girls and boys, these located on opposite ends of the campus from each other. The men had the Holy Redeemer Workshop building for pursuing healthy, masculine hobbies-and the golf course, too, though that was not officially closed to women-but tonight was the general Men’s Meeting, and for that they needed the massive seating of the sanctuarium itself.
Ruppert entered into the West Narthex, where high glass walls and skylights gave a view of the low, fat sun sinking toward the ocean. Men in suits crowded the room, greeting each other with the hearty handshake-plus-shoulder-grab move, sipping iced teas and juices from the Fishes ‘N Loaves franchise just inside the front door.
“Daniel! Great to see you!”
Ruppert turned to greet a bland-faced, balding man with a toothy smile. For a moment he struggled to remember the man’s name as he shook the offered hand and accepted the obligatory thump on the arm.
“Hi there…” At the last moment, the name popped into his head: Liam O’Shea. “Liam!”
“We’ve missed you in Revelation Review,” the man said, his smile fixed as if determined not to waver. “Where have you been spending your Tuesdays?”
“I’ve only missed…three. I’m sorry.” He struggled to remember what Liam did for a living-something vague for the Church. Child and Family Services, maybe? Welfare distribution? It had to be something bureaucratic, the man reeked of it.
“We’re nearly to the coming of the Beast. You shouldn’t miss that-Pastor John sent down special guidelines for discussion.”
“I’ll be there next week.”
“You should really feel more concerned about preparing for the End Times, Daniel.” O’Shea was leaning in too close, flinging minute drops of spittle precariously close to Ruppert’s face. A bright gleam crept in at the back of his eyes. “Some of the prophecies have already come to pass. It’s not long now, Daniel.”
“I’m very concerned. We’re all concerned. I’ve had a lot of work lately, Liam. There’s a war on, you know. News is an important part of the war effort. Our brave men and women in uniform are counting on us.”
Liam O’Shea’s smile quivered, then reluctantly bent into the grave frown appropriate for any discussion of the soldiers at war. “Of course. We must not forget our brave men and women in uniform.”
Checkmate, Liam, Ruppert thought.
Ruppert shook hands and pounded arms and greeted perhaps a hundred more men, but despite his maneuvering, Liam O’Shea managed to stay close by, taking the occasional furtive glance at Ruppert.
Ruppert hadn’t been playing as much golf as usual, either. His new illegal hobby had eaten into social time; O’Shea had noticed, and now apparently felt obliged to keep an eye on Ruppert-for the good of Ruppert’s soul. If Ruppert failed display sufficient piety and groupiness, O’Shea might even report him to one of the lay pastors for counseling.
Ruppert took the most circuitous route possible to his usual Men’s Meeting seat on the second tier of pews, but O’Shea kept pace and followed him all the way, sitting down in the same row when Ruppert joined up with his current golfing group. The men were like him, in their early thirties, similar suit, same haircut from the Church barbershop. He did remember their names, but generally thought of them as the lawyer, the doctor, the television producer. It was easier that way. He’d be assigned a different group of friends next month.
The sanctuarium was laid out like a Roman circus, encircled by three tiers of seating with a capacity of ninety thousand souls. The golden domed ceiling soared above them, its apex too distant to see, giving an impression of infinite glimmering space overhead (though Ruppert wondered if the Church enhanced this effect with holograms).
He looked down on the stages below, at the center of the sanctuary. An array of giant screens, each four stories high, faced out from the center to replicate the scene below, blown up to immense proportions that dwarfed the viewer. At the moment, the Men’s Blessed Banjo Band played a cover of a current faith-pop hit, “Down on My Knees (For Him).” They wore crosses, painted to resemble the American flag, pinned to the brims of their oversized straw hats, six musicians of uneven skill.
I’m down on my knees,
Ready to receive,
Oh Lord, come into me…
“Daniel!”
“Hi there, Daniel! What’s the news?”
“Good to see you, Daniel.”
Ruppert gripped and grinned and clapped shoulders, repeating the interminable round of rising, smiling, shaking hands, exchanging pleasantries, sitting again. These days, he thought, everyone has to be a fucking politician just to survive.
The men continued to pour in-there might be ten thousand of them tonight. Every man eighteen or older was expected to attend the weekly Men’s Meeting. It was not required, of course. The Church did not explicitly require anything but faith and a willingness to serve.
In practice, New Dominion Church was the "true American faith" promoted by the Department of Faith and Values, and membership was implicitly required for any sort of licensed professional (such as a journalist or historian) and any kind of government-linked job. In the Ninety-Third Amendment to the Constitution, the title "Defender of the Faith" had been added to the duties of the President.
And in practice, everyone had to join a number of groups and clubs. The smaller associations played a vital role in knitting the congregation together, ensuring that every individual sheep could be watched for signs of straying from the flock.
“Daniel!”
“What’s the news there, Daniel?”
I give up my pride,
I spread open wide,
Oh Lord, I feel you inside…
The band finished, drawing a smattering of applause from the audience. A few lay pastors took turns making announcements, usually of people deserving recognition and praise. One man had been made CEO of his firm. Another had purchased a new, larger home, on a higher hill. A third man had donated a large sum to provide Bibles for Muslim children in Palestine, one of Pastor John’s newest programs.
Finally, Pa
stor John Perrish arrived, drawing applause and stomping feet from the vast mob of men. Ruppert watched him on the screen, the man’s face thirty feet high, his hair a youthful jet black even though he was well past sixty. The New America flag in his lapel bore a glittering diamond Jesus fish in place of the star.
Pastor John favored the crowd with a tight smile, his electric blue eyes piercing, glowing in the stage lights. He remained a step back from the podium, giving the occasional understated wave or nod at men in the front rows. He let the crowd’s enthusiasm roll over and around him, but still he hung back from the microphone, letting the sustained applause run its course.
As the crowd quieted, he stayed where he was, his bright eyes scanning over the crowd. He raised his right hand and spread his fingers. A glowing orb of white light the size of an egg rose from his fingertips and floated above his head. The orb melted and spread into a glowing dove with a golden aura, which orbited over Pastor John like the Holy Spirit in every painting of Christ's baptism.
It was an illusion, of course, an animated hologram provided by hidden projectors. You couldn't trust much you saw in a Dominionist Church. But the illusion was attractive.
The dove turned in wider circles over the crowd, soaring towards the vast emptiness of the golden dome above the sanctuary. It mutated, sprouting long talons, its wingspan swelling, its beak bending into a sharp hook. It metamorphosed into a bald eagle the size of a pterodactyl, turning a wide spiral inside the dome, glaring down at the men's assembly with one flaming eye and up at heaven with the other.
The applause regained momentum, and soon the crowd roared again. Ruppert was among them, overwhelmed by the surging crowd-energy, cheering and yelling like the others. It was easier than sitting it out and drawing attention to yourself.
Pastor John stayed completely silent until the last man had stopped clapping. Only then did he step forward.
“Men of the Dominion,” Pastor John said. “Welcome back to God’s House.” This drew another sustained round of applause, spurred along with a few guitar licks from the band. The Banjo Club had departed in favor of Pastor John’s personal musicians. “Let us pray.”
Ten thousand heads bowed before the towering image of Pastor John.
“The Eighty-Ninth Psalm. O Lord God Almighty, who is like you?” Pastor John read from the oversized leather Bible on the podium. “You are mighty, O Lord, and your faithfulness surrounds you. You rule over the surging sea; when its waves mount up, you still them. With your strong arm you scattered your enemies. The heavens are yours, and yours also the earth; you founded the world and all that is in it. Your arm is endued with power; your hand is strong, your right hand exalted. Righteousness and justice are the foundation of your throne. Blessed are those who have learned to acclaim you, who walk in the light of your presence, O Lord.”
Pastor John paused for a long moment.
“Today, we thank you for the many blessings in our lives. So many in our congregation have met with great success in the affairs of the world. We believe it is because You act us through us, because You desire the best for Your favored children. Help us each to strive to be better servants, and guide us to reach out to one another, to keep one another strong in the faith. Oh, Great and Fierce Judge of the World, help us find those who doubt, that we may keep them close in the flock.
“Oh Mighty Ruler of Us All, we pray that You watch over our brave men and women in uniform, and that You reign destruction and death upon the dark forces they oppose. And we pray that the lost souls of the jungle and desert find their way to You, that You will minister unto them through your chosen people, your New Jerusalem, Your Kingdom-on-Earth, the great nation of America everlasting.
“In the name of Our King, Amen.”
“Amen,” the crowd answered.
Pastor John looked up. He seemed to be measuring the crowd with his eyes. “Gentlemen, we face a hostile world. A world devoted to false gods, to false ideas. A world which refuses to see that the hand of God approaches, that time is short, that the hour is near.
“We face a renewed insurgency in Egypt, a Biblical land. The pagans have found a new cleric to lead them, who stirs up hatred and violence in their souls. He preaches a gospel of death and hellfire, and prays to a host of demons.” Uneasy murmurs circulated through the crowd. War images and disheartening news from the battlefield were strictly limited on television, for the benefit of the women and children, but it was considered important to keep the men updated. The faithful men.
A dark face filled the giant display screens, an Arab with a low, hairy brow and a scowl barely visible through a black lion’s mane of a beard. Ruppert knew they sometimes altered the images to make enemies look extra fierce, or mixed in Neanderthal features to make them appear barbaric. It was important, he understood, to help drive home the threat to a population that sometimes grew complacent.
Angry boos and shouts greeting the image.
“He calls himself Sheik Muhammad al Taba,” Pastor John continued. “Reports say he may have as many as a hundred thousand radical followers, possibly as many as half a million across North Africa.”
The men groaned at the staggering odds.
“You see what these people do?” Pastor John said. “They just keep coming back. They just keep marching for any raving lunatic that stands up and says 'go and kill.' Now, I have seen these people up close. From Babylon to Jerusalem, and halfway up to Moscow, I’ve fought them, and I’ve studied them.” The pastor’s hand cracked the podium at the word “studied.”
Ruppert believed it. Pastor John had numerous Purple Hearts and a Cross of Glory, most of them earned in the streets and deserts of the Middle East. After Columbus, the False and Foreign Religions Act required state certification of all religious leaders. The New Dominion Church seemed to prefer those with a long record of military service, particularly Special Forces. One of the assistant pastors had explained that you could never get closer to God than on a battlefield.
“…and they will not rest until they have forced all of us to worship their false idol in Mecca!” Pastor John’s voice trembled with anger. “This is the great conflict, the last great conflict of mankind. Either we annihilate our enemies, or we bow our knees toward that monstrous black box five times each day.” This drew shouts of anger from the crowd.
“So I want you to know I support our renewed mission in Egypt. We are sending twenty battalions into Cairo even as I speak. For the sake of all that is holy, I hope they send in twenty more! This radical cleric must be stopped before he can send his armies against us. With your support, and your prayers, our brave forces will strike down this false prophet, this corrupter of souls, this enemy of God, and they will carry forward the holy lamp of truth into the darkest realms of the world!”
Ruppert found himself cheering along with the others, fists beating into the air.
Pastor John described more about the new enemy, his blasphemous teachings, his obsession with war, his demands of mindless obedience, his dreams of global domination, his atrocities against the innocent. After the men had their fill of war news, each turn of the plot provoking the crowd’s enthusiasm or animosity, he led them in a closing prayer.
“…and so we pray, Lord, that you make us as strong and resilient as our ancestors were, ready to do battle in Your name until the devil’s armies are at last routed from the soil of the earth. We pray that you will let our tongues speak only truth, and that you will guide us to hear the whispers of dissent among us, those false and unholy voices that would corrupt our hearts and blur our vision in this grand crusade. And when we hear them, Lord, let them be a reminder that the serpent remains among us today, and the serpent must be crushed under the heel of righteousness. Let us root out the voices of wicked deception in our community, Lord, and make us a whole people, united behind You. Lord, please protect and embolden our Dear President and our brave men and women in uniform as they wage war on the forces of evil. In the name of our King, Amen.”
“Amen
,” Ruppert said, his voice lost among ten thousand others.
FIVE
On Saturday, Madeline hosted some kind of cheese-tasting garden party for the women in her Christian Gardening Society, and twenty of them came in nearly identical spring dresses, their ages from twenty to sixty, their husbands in tow. The women gathered on the rear deck to eat Wisconsin brie and talk. God knew what they could have talked about for so long, but their chattering voices never quieted; to Ruppert, they became like the twittering of birds against the sleepy jazz-lite music flowing from fake rocks in the garden.
As usual, the men eventually drifted inside to gather around Ruppert’s floor-to-ceiling wall screen and watch the Dodgers game. Like all men awkwardly drawn together by a convergence of their women, they spoke a little about sports and cars, drank what they could, and stayed grateful the game was there to fill the time between arrival and departure.
The Dodgers were up three to one against the Pirates at the top of the eighth, and Ruppert gave every appearance of watching the game. His eyes kept drifting towards the upper corner of the screen, where he’d always imagined the cameras were hidden, though he had no reason to believe this. More likely, the cameras were microscopic and scattered across the surface of the screen.
Everyone knew the cameras were there; it was obvious every time you made a video call, and the better screens also responded to hand gestures. The most expensive screens, like those at GlobeNet, actually followed your eyes, highlighting and enlarging anything on which you rested your gaze.
He’d heard rumors about the screens. They said the Department of Terror could track anything you did online, from phone calls to paying your bills to watching a show; Nicholas had no doubt about that, and it had never been kept secret. He’d also heard that Terror could silently activate your screens at any time to watch your activities at home, even if the screen was turned off.
The most chilling thing he’d heard, though, was that the cameras recorded everyone, all the time, and Terror stored every bit of it in giant data archives, somewhere deep underground in the desert, or extreme northern Alaska, or somewhere in the Appalachian mountains (depending on who it was that had too many drinks and dared to talk about it). If you became of interest to them, they could search back through your whole life for signs of insufficient patriotism or sympathy with the enemy, even perform keyword searches through your most intimate conversations.