Kingdoms Fury

by David Sherman

  "Ladies, set up your equipment and start to work. Herten, these ladies were lately special assistants to that miserable pulpit thumper, Ralphy Bruce Preachintent. They were his makeup artists. They now work for me. Ladies, you may commence."

  Before Gorman's eyes the three women began the transformation of Dominic de Tomas. They were done within the hour. As they stood back, admiring their work, Gorman could not resist clapping his hands enthusiastically. Even in the comparatively dim indoor lighting of de Tomas's den, his face glowed with radiant good-natured charm, so skillfully had the women applied their powders and rouges; his hair had been trimmed neatly and restyled carefully to reduce the length of his jaw, which ordinarily gave him a distinctly horsey look. The roseate glow of his skin actually made him look younger and vital, and brimming with good spirits.

  "Well, what do you think?" de Tomas asked at last.

  "I think they should go to work on me next," Gorman answered, and they all laughed. The way Gelli Alois tossed her head and winked at the senior stormleader, it was clear that she would like the opportunity to show him what she could do.

  The hour had arrived. In the foyer, camera crews were setting up and technicians bustled everywhere. De Tomas was going to make his broadcast right in front of Heinrich the Fowler—the ancient unifier of the Germanic peoples revered by the Special Group as their hero.

  De Tomas was in a jolly mood, joking with the technicians. Once again, Gorman was surprised. He'd never seen de Tomas like this. People were actually responding to him as he moved among them, joking with one person here, slapping another on the back there, asking questions about the broadcast equipment, bantering and making small talk. He remembered de Tomas in the torture chamber and wondered how anyone could achieve and maintain such a contrast as his leader was demonstrating just then.

  Then Gorman realized that de Tomas lived in two worlds he carefully kept apart. One was the world of his fantasy—Dean of the Collegium and, now, the supreme political power in the world, where he was endowed with unlimited power to shape and change, where his will held sway over that of everyone else who came within his sphere. In the other world, de Tomas was the avuncular, cosmopolitan man of the people, charming and witty, sincere, the arbiter of all the problems of the "little" people of the world, a man to be respected and loved, but mostly loved. Gorman smiled. He had no doubt now that de Tomas would convey his public image with complete success. The only question was, which of his worlds was the fantasy and which the real?

  De Tomas took his place behind the ornate, old-fashioned desk that had been brought into the foyer. Gelli Alois and her assistants fluttered around him, making minor adjustments to his makeup. At last he nodded to the technician in charge, who called for silence. At a nod from his leader, Gorman came to attention and shouted, "Ah-TEN-HUT!" The Lifeguards who had been standing at parade rest around the walls of the foyer crashed to the position of attention. All was silent in the great hall. "One, two, three," the chief technician whispered, then pointed a rigid forefinger at the Special Group bandleader. The stirring first bars of Franz Lizst's "Les Preludes" echoed throughout the vast chamber. Then, as the music died away, Dominic de Tomas began to speak.

  "My friends," he said gravely, "I have the most momentous news for every man, woman, and child in the world." As de Tomas spoke, Gorman slowly became convinced that his leader meant every word he was saying, though he knew he should have known better.

  "Our glorious military forces, under the brilliant leadership of that valiant old soldier, Archbishop General Lambsblood, have succeeded at long last in expelling the demon invaders from our world. The demons are in full retreat and our forces are pursuing them.

  "You have suffered greatly since these evil creatures came here. Many have died, and our towns and cities have been laid waste. But now it is time to rebuild. We always knew in our hearts that they could break our walls but never our spirits.

  "But some things in this world have now changed forever. For the better. I have the sad duty to announce to you that yesterday evening, in my official capacity as Dean of the Collegium, I was forced to arrest the entire Ecumenical Council of Leaders." Here de Tomas paused dramatically. "After a long investigation, incontrovertible proof was obtained—and I tell you this with the greatest sadness—that our leaders were to a man engaged in an unholy conspiracy to profit personally from our terrible misfortunes. Each was enriching himself from money made from black marketeering and illegal off-world currency transactions while hampering our military forces' operations against the enemy!" His voice had risen almost to a shout and the veins stood out on his forehead. He paused again, as if taking control of himself. "All the facts of this investigation will be made public in due course, and you will be able to judge for yourself the degree to which our leaders have betrayed us."

  De Tomas carefully folded his hands in front of him, visibly taking a deep breath. "I was forced to move with the greatest speed to end this conspiracy. I did that on my own initiative, but in your name and on your behalf. I have been reluctantly forced now to take the reins of government into my own hands. That is the last thing I ever wanted, but it has to be done. I am not a politician. I am not a leader. And I will wear the mantle of this awesome responsibility only until I can pass it to someone more capable.

  "Therefore, I announce formally and officially that the Collegium is hereby dissolved. Henceforth each sect will run its own religious affairs according to its own tenets without interference or oversight from my government. You will render unto that government only that which it is due, and you may practice your religion as you see fit."

  Standing in the shadows off to one side, Gorman smiled. They wouldn't need the Collegium to control the people anymore. The schools, the media, and social organizations would take care of that. Soon each sect would be isolated from the others, and de Tomas could then deal with them individually. He did not care what they believed, only that they obey, and obey they would once their livelihoods depended on it. Already members of the Special Group and the Collegium's bureaus were actively gathering in the reins of finance and industry. With peace restored and money to be made, the bankers and industrialists had proved so far only too cooperative.

  "I will announce my cabinet in the next few days," de Tomas continued. "After that I shall present to you a new constitution written to guarantee your religious and personal freedoms so that never again can corrupt government rule this world."

  Again de Tomas paused. An expression of humble submission and sincere gratitude crossed his face. He looked steadily into the camera. Watching on a monitor, Gorman felt a catch in his throat. De Tomas looked so honest and . . . saintly—the reluctant hero, called to this momentous act by a sheer sense of duty!

  "Now, my friends, I must be about your business. We will have frequent talks like this as the next weeks come to pass. I wish now that you all return to your homes and start to rebuild your lives. Until we meet again, God bless you, and good night."

  It was a very short speech for a man who had just succeeded in seizing absolute power on an entire world. Unlike dictators before him, such as Adolf Hitler, Benito Mussolini, and Denon Irondequoit of Kanitarons, Dominic de Tomas had no need of lengthy speeches. Those other megalomaniacs had agendas to pursue that required the cooperation of their people, so it was necessary for them to persuade as much as it had been to usurp. De Tomas had no agenda beyond the seizure of power. He would extend that power through the instruments at his disposal—the Special Group and its affiliates, and Archbishop General Lambsblood and the Army of the Lord. Whoever did not cooperate would be destroyed. He did not need to persuade anyone to agree with him.

  "Why that mealy-mouthed, phony, lying sonofabitch!" Jayben Spears raged. He and his staff were watching the broadcast from their offices in Interstellar City.

  "He's pulling it off brilliantly, though," Carlisle Prentiss remarked.

  "Yes, all the more dreadful," Spears sneered. "How the hell did they make him up to look s
o . . . so . . .?"

  "Human?"

  "Yes. You've seen him close up," Spears went on, unconsciously massaging his wrist. "It's amazing, Prentiss. We can take the human body apart and put it back together again like new but the only treatment for a sprained wrist is to apply ice packs and wrap it in a goddamn elastic bandage." He grimaced and turned back to de Tomas. "He looks like death warmed over. But here he is on this worldwide hookup looking like—like some tanned and athletic vid star!"

  "Well, regrettably, sir, he's pulled something off on us. The preliminary reports we're getting from the outlying districts is that people are more interested in putting their lives back together than in what happened to the Ecumenical Leaders. Besides, the Collegium's been a part of the scene in this world for so long now people automatically assume whatever it does is perfectly legitimate. The average man in the sect apparently thinks if the Collegium drags someone off in the night, especially if it's someone from another sect, well, that person must have deserved it."

  "Yes, yes," Spears said, "and so far as the ‘man in the sect’ is concerned, the high mucky-mucks in the Convocation are as remote from his daily life as any lay politician from the man in the street anywhere else in Human Space. Well, Prentiss, this is it for me."

  "You mean you're resigning, sir?"

  Spears looked hard at his chief-of-station before answering. "Hell no, Prentiss! I'm not resigning." He held up his wrist, the one de Tomas had sprained. "Not now. I owe that sonofabitch. No, I'm staying right here, and I'm opposing that bastard in every way I can. He can complain about me all he wants to. I can outwrite the bastard in my own dispatches. The only way they're going to get me off this world is feet first or by presidential decree, and I guarantee you, with what Ted Sturgeon and I will have to say about Mr. Dominic de Tomas, the old girl will want to keep me right where I am." He raised his glass and toasted Prentiss. "I have not yet begun to fight."

  Carlisle sighed inwardly. I'd better contact the commander of the Marine security detail, he thought. The old boy's going to need all the protection he can get from now on.

  "You were absolutely brilliant, my leader!" Gorman enthused, alone with de Tomas.

  De Tomas smiled and nodded. "Thank Miss Gelli and her maidens for that, Senior Stormleader."

  "Sir, messages have been coming in from all over the world, congratulating you on your bold action, your integrity, your . . ." He held up a sheaf of telegrams from government officials and church leaders, those too far down in the chain to have been earmarked for elimination, praising de Tomas's performance earlier in the evening. "The people are behind you!" Gorman was nearly in tears, he was so happy.

  "Yes. Well, if anybody is not, we know how to handle them, eh?" De Tomas laughed. "But Senior Stormleader, I have a special request of you," he went on, very serious now. "This is a matter of some delicacy and I entrust it to you exclusively. You are to tell no one. Is that clear?"

  "Of course, my leader! I stand ready for your orders!"

  "Ahem. Senior Stomleader, I need companionship."

  Gorman hesitated an instant before responding, "'Companionship.' Yessir."

  "I have devoted my life to my people," de Tomas mused, looking off into space. "I have had no personal life, no family, no friends. I think now I must have a—consort." He looked straight at Gorman.

  "Ah, yes, my leader, a ‘consort,’ surely. Naturally."

  De Tomas nodded, speaking almost to himself. "She must be young. I do not want a woman old enough to have been corrupted by those around her." He held up one finger. "She must be healthy, Senior Stormleader—mark that, healthy." He held up a second finger. "She must not be a religious zealot." He held up a third finger. "She cannot, of course, be married. A widow would do, but she cannot be married." He held up a fourth finger. "And finally, Senior Stormleader, she must be comely. Do you know what comely is, Senior Stormleader?"

  "Yes, my leader, comely." Gorman thought fast. "Comely like, ah, Miss Gelli, my leader? Miss Gelli is comely, very comely. Ah, yes, and so is Miss Madel," he went on quickly, mentally kicking himself that he'd mentioned Gelli first.

  "Yes, yes, yes," de Tomas waved a hand, "but I have other things in mind for Miss Gelli and her assistants, Senior Stormleader." Gorman felt a wave of relief pass over him. He had something in mind for Miss Gelli too. "But you are right, she is comely. I want a woman as comely as she, Senior Stormleader. So there you have it."

  "Yes, sir. Ah, have what, my leader?"

  "I want you to find this ideal woman for me, Senior Stormleader!" de Tomas said as if talking to an idiot. "In your travels, in your discussions, in your business as the commander of the Special Group, I want you to find a woman who fits my requirements and bring her to me here at Wayvelsburg. I will interview her. If she turns out unacceptable, bring another, and so on. Until you find just the right one for me."

  "My leader, consider it done!" Gorman bowed deeply from the waist. But inside he seethed at the thought that elevated to command the Special Group, he was now to be his leader's procurer.

  Epilogue

  The Brattles sat comfortably around the fire in their living room. It had taken them several days to reestablish themselves in their old home. The men had spent most of that time gathering in the stray livestock—the few that had been left behind in the rush when the community moved to Gerizim—and the animals were now secured in the barns. New herds would be bred from them in time, and in the spring—it was winter now in this hemisphere—crops would be planted and the community would also take root again and thrive.

  None of the City of God survivors knew anything about the war against the Skinks or what had happened in the world since their sect had been attacked. They had known, of course, that the Confederation Marines had landed, and they also knew that the ministers of their sect were of the opinion the Marines had come to further oppress them. But since the disaster at Gerizim, the survivors had given no more thought to the off-worlders, or if they had, they would have been glad to see them.

  Outside, a violent sleet storm raged in the night. In the flickering firelight Zechariah was reading aloud from the twenty-seventh chapter of Deuteronomy, when someone shouted. The words were carried away by the wind, but Zechariah looked up. "Who could that be?" he asked, reaching for the gun that was always close by these days. Comfort shifted the barrel of her shot rifle so it covered the door. The voice came again, accompanied by pounding on the door. Cautiously, Zechariah got up and opened it. Hannah Flood, accompanied by a blast of frigid air, stumbled inside.

  "The night is aptly named after you, Hannah," Zechariah said, his weak attempt at humor lost in the blast of sleety air that accompanied the woman. She stood gasping for a moment.

  "Zach, come to the meetinghouse at once! Strangers have arrived! Oh, the poor souls, you should see them!"

  Without a further word Zechariah slipped into a waterproof and stepped out into the darkness. Comfort followed, her shot rifle slung beneath her slicker. The three trudged down the street to the meetinghouse, its windows dimly aglow through the tempest. Inside, several villagers stood around three prostrate forms, two men and a woman, stretched out on the floor. Someone had taken off the rags they'd been wearing and wrapped them in warm blankets, but still, their faces were blue with cold and they shivered uncontrollably.

  "They came to our home," Esau Stoughten explained to Zechariah, "and we brought them here, but they need a doctor, Zach, look at their bodies." He pulled the covers off one of the men. Comfort gasped. The outline of the man's ribs showed plainly through his pallid skin, as did his pelvic bones, and his cheeks were sunken in like those of an old man. "They are all like this," Esau explained, "and look at their poor feet." He drew back the covers farther, to expose the man's feet, which were torn to shreds. "They have walked a long ways, and in this weather, without shoes, only those pitiful rags." He nodded at the sodden pile of clothes in one corner.

  Zechariah knelt by the man. "Can you hear me?" he asked. The man's teeth chatt
ered but he nodded. "Where are you from? What happened to you?" He noticed the man's body was laced with scar tissue, some of it very fresh but most of it from old wounds.

  "Sk-Skin-Skinks," the man whispered, shaking his head. "Monsters," he croaked.

  "Oh, dear God," someone exclaimed.

  Zechariah remembered the humans he'd seen hauling loads at the demon encampment on their way back to New Salem. "Skinks" is what this man called them? If they came from there, the monsters would be looking for them, would follow them, and would come to New Salem. Well, so be it, he thought. Then: "We must take them to our homes and care for them. I'll take this man. Come, let us move them, and quickly."

  Two days passed and the demons did not come. The Brattles cared for their guest around the clock, Comfort and Consort feeding him nourishing broth and keeping him warm under a pile of quilts. Shortly after getting him into a bed, he lapsed into a feverish coma. He stayed that way during those two days, sometimes muttering incomprehensibly and groaning but otherwise unresponsive.

  Early in the morning of the third day, Comfort dozed by his bedside, her Bible lying open on her lap. "Are you an angel?" a voice croaked, startling the young woman fully awake.

  "Oh! Are you all right?" she said, kneeling by the man's bedside. She lay a hand on his forehead. The fever was gone.

  "I feel terrible," he rasped, a weak smile on his lips. He gazed up at Comfort for a moment. "Who are you? Where am I?"

  "My name is Comfort Brattle and you are in my father's house in New Salem," Comfort answered, pouring him a glass of water. She held it to his lips and he drank thirstily. Some slopped onto his chin, and Comfort gently wiped it away with a napkin.

  "Th-Thank you, Com-Comfort," he managed. "Comfort? What a beautiful name." He smiled again. "You are an angel," he sighed. His eyes began to flutter.

  "What is your name, sir, and who are you?" Comfort asked. The man's eyes began to close. She shook him. "Who are you?" she asked again.