by Lars Teeney
“I appreciate your candor, Chief Warden. It is the Church’s stance that infidels have too many inroads into undermining the values of our society. I have been handed a mandate to make sure that these children not only are integrated into our society seamlessly but that they also embrace our doctrine wholeheartedly—” Father von Manstein paused. His eye was drawn to a head of long, glistening, jet-black hair; it belonged to Ayane. She felt his gaze upon her but still locked her eyes straight ahead.
“Father?” The Chief Warden attempted to regain his attention, but Father von Manstein drew closer to Ayane.
“Tell me, warden; what is this one’s name?” von Manstein’s interest was piqued.
“Oh, that is the new one. The name is Inoguchi or something,” the Chief Warden said with indifference.
“The Inoguchis? I see.” Father von Manstein answered his own question and approached Ayane, who sat stiffly.
“Hello, child. You seem tense. You shouldn’t be; this is a place of God. What is your name?” von Manstein asked; hovering. His hook nose was a beak.
“A-Ayane,” was all she could muster. The aura of this strange man made her feel defensive. His alien garb made him resemble a ruffled-up, predatory bird. Father von Manstein wore a black and white tunic, with a raised collar that terminated in a point behind his head. On top of his head was adorned a cylindrically-shaped cap with a flat top, blazoned with a band of black crosses. His beady eyes were hungry. von Manstein knelt beside Ayane.
“Ayane! Lovely name. Listen, Ayane, you are under the protection of God. Have any of the children given you any problems?” von Manstein queried.
“Well—I—no.” She stopped herself from divulging information that could make her a target. von Manstein chuckled, then put a hand on her shoulder. Ayane shirked internally.
“It’s okay child. Did you know I grew up in a H.O.V.E.L. just like this?” von Manstein offered. She glanced at him for a moment, pondering what he said.
“You did?” she asked.
“Oh yes. The H.O.V.E.L. I grew up in raised me from a barbarous heathen to my station today. These homes are the great equalizer that allow Apostates to become Virtuous,” he said with a smirk.
“They do?” A thousand thoughts streamed through her head, but that was all she asked.
“Most definitely. Ayane, allow me to provide you with some guidance. I will set you on the path to greatness.” Ayane did not understand his meaning.
“Warden, Ayane is to visit me in my private quarters. Please make all the necessary arrangements,” von Manstein instructed.
The Chief Warden stood silent for a moment, then spoke, “Yes, holiness.”
“Oh and make sure she is dressed in her Sunday-best.”
⍟ ⍟ ⍟
“You truly have been blessed, girl. To have been chosen by a Father of the Church for guidance is an honor. The children of the H.O.V.E.L. will surely be jealous. I wouldn’t go around rubbing it in now,” the Chief Warden offered the warning. Ayane walked alongside her, saying nothing. She was dressed in a white, billowing blouse with a red scarf tie, fastened around her neck. A plaid, pleated skirt adorned her lower half. Her hair was made up in pig-tails. The Chief Warden herself had a hand in preparing Ayane for her visit.
“I’ve heard that Father von Manstein is very particular. He doesn’t just take anyone under his wing. Although I think your family name helps,” the Chief Warden confessed. Ayane did not understand what she had implied.
“Well, here we are.” The Chief Warden pinged Father von Manstein via his neural implant to inform him of their arrival. Ayane looked up at the steel reinforced, gothic-arched, double-door that was the entrance to the guest quarters for V.I.P.s. The doors opened on their own.
“Ayane! Do come in. Thank you, Warden, you did a wonderful job preparing Ayane!” Father von Manstein was glowing. He was dressed in casual clergy wear.
“Excellent, holiness. Please call if you require anything.” With that, the Chief Warden took her leave.
“Come, come, Ayane. Have a seat. Would you like something to drink? Orange Juice? Water?” von Manstein asked. The one thing Ayane knew for sure is that she craved orange juice. Good orange juice was a rare commodity even for the ruling class.
“Orange juice, please,” she requested, taking a seat on a plush, velvet chair. von Manstein handed a crystal goblet filled with the precious liquid to Ayane. She took a sip and swished it in her mouth; savoring.
“Now then, do you know why you are here, Ayane? I mean, aside from being favored by the Lord,” von Manstein pulled up another chair close to Ayane while he spoke.
“Uh—” She shook her head indicating ignorance.
“Child, it must be quite a shock to have been plucked out of your privileged world and plunged into this environment. I know. However, this is what your parents wanted for you,” von Manstein assured her.
“My parents?” Ayane was confused. She remembered that her parents had always been gone for months at a time during her formative years, having been raised largely by house staff. Then one day agents of the Church of New Megiddo Central Authority came to take her away.
“Yes, your parents. They were special; the Inoguchis. Goro and Emi. I bet you barely knew them, but they were holding the line against the taint of Apostasy,” he said, eyes widened.
“I—,” was all she said.
“I know it is quite a bit to take in. Your parents were top agents in Law of Virtue Enforcement; undercover Rangers they were. The best in the agency. They had been sent to infiltrate an Apostate separatist settlement in California. They had been among its number for well over a year. Long story short, before the operation to raid the settlement they were compromised. Tragically killed in the service to their Faith.” von Manstein removed his cap in a sign of respect to the dead, revealing thinning, peppered hair.
“I—I did not know this,” Ayane began to sob silently.
“Oh, child! This is a boon to you; blessed you are,” he said, moving in closer, he laid a hand on her back, “Your parents wanted you to follow in their footsteps in service to the Faith. No bloodline is better suited for this role. For five hundred years, your family were dreaded assassins for Shogunates of Japan, and beyond. You descend from a line of holy warriors.” von Manstein reveled in the tale.
“But, I don’t know anything about fighting,” Ayane confessed meekly.
“You will. I am going to make sure of it. My mission is to provide you with guidance. It requires a very close relationship,” he said, making eye contact.
“But—I,” she was interrupted.
“This all must be so overwhelming for you. Let us get to know one another,” he whispered. He lightly touched her red scarf tie, breathing heavily, he said, “Let us loosen this and make you are more comfortable.”
⍟ ⍟ ⍟
ALL IS VANITY
The dentist’s grinder made short work of each tooth; little-by-little, each was filed down to a sharp point. After this task was completed, the surgeon affixed molten titanium casings to each front tooth; ensuring the menacing fangs would be preserved. The surgeon prepared a solution contained in several syringes. He applied the injections just under the skin of the patient. The solution, which would result in the bleaching of the skin, was no ordinary bleaching, agent. Synthetic proteins, in essence, nano-robots, would change the color of the tissue at a cellular level. The resulting hue was of an ashen-gray color. The spectacle of the transformation resembled chromatophore camouflage of cephalopods until a uniform gray was reached.
The surgeon then turned his attention to the patient’s eyes. This was the most delicate part of the operation and carried the most risk of the body rejecting artificial implants. The surgeon went to work, with the assistance of Medical Utility Drones, to methodically remove the eyes and optical nerves of the patient. The synthetic tissue implants were readied for install
ation. The disembodied, beastly irises stared onward at nothing in particular. Delicate arms lowered the implants into the vacant eye sockets. A fusion of synthetic and organic tissue was taking place; linking synthetic optical nerves to the visual cortex of the patient’s brain. Almost immediately R.E.M.s occurred; confirming to the surgeon that the link between the brain and implants was a success.
After the very tense and delicate operation, the surgeon let out a sigh of relief. He instructed the M.U.D.s to apply a healing mask to the patient’s head; a featureless, sealed, alloy mask that would aid in the healing process via nano-drones, which would clean incisions and fight infection. The surgeon pulled away his mask and exited the small operating room to an adjacent office. He poured himself a glass of fine bourbon. Being a black market cartel physician did have its benefits. The proceeds from this operation could keep him afloat for the rest of the year. He savored each sip of the caramel-colored liqueur; it was the flavor of success.
⍟ ⍟ ⍟
The patient finally stirred. He sat upright on the gurney; the weight of the helmet causing him to strain slightly. He spoke, “Doctor, what is this infernal contraption you have encased my head in?”
“Why, it’s a Healing Automation Technology drone. It will speed up the healing process and will make sure your body does not reject your visual implants,” the surgeon informed him. The patient looked around the room, trying to get used to viewing things through the H.A.T.
“For how long will I have to where this most inconvenient device?” the patient asked.
“Until I am satisfied that you are healed properly, Prescott,” the surgeon insisted.
“I see. I fear it cannot interfere with my work as an Ordained Prelate of the Church of New Megiddo. There is quite hefty sums of capital at stake,” Prescott quipped.
“Believe me, I would not want to do anything to jeopardize your revenue stream, as it trickles down to me. You will need to stay out of action for a few days. You will get used to the H.A.T. in time. Just keep me updated on your status,” the black market surgeon ordered.
“Fine, fine. I have authorized the transfer of one million New Megiddo Tithings to your account, for services rendered. Another five hundred thousand once I am mended and I am satisfied that I am indeed putting the dread of Hell into my query. It will be what sets me apart from my counterpart Prelates,” Prescott said matter-of-factly.
“I get it, you need to build your brand, as they used to say,” the surgeon added.
“Much obliged, doctor. I shall take my leave now. I’ll be in touch.” Prescott got up off the gurney; still wobbly, he took extra care to steady himself. The chrome-domed Prelate climbed the stairwell out of the black market infirmary and into the daylight of the slums of Los Angeles. He marveled at the site of the vast spread of shanties stretching up over the Hollywood hills. The scenery looked surreal to him through the augmented visual implants. He could focus in on each structure with eagle-like eyes.
“Ah, yes. What a sound investment, indeed,” he thought to himself as he made his way toward the downtown sky-towers.
⍟ ⍟ ⍟
Prescott had always preferred the remote settlements of the coast north of L.A. to the vast sprawl of the slums or the glitz of downtown. He did make enough as a Prelate of the Church to afford a penthouse in a sky-tower, but it felt disingenuous to him. The nature of his work did not match the sterile, minimalist-chic of the affluent. Prescott was a creature of the dingy, the divey and the dark. He was also pragmatic; he was no religious zealot like the other Prelates. Prescott discovered what he had talent, for and then figured out how to make a comfortable living at it; and if he had to play the part, so be it.
Prescott strolled along the clean sidewalks under the shadow of the sky-towers. Each passerby shot him a perturbed glance at the site of the strange helmet affixed to his head. He nodded to each politely. They made a wide arc around his path; mainly because he carried twin tomahawks hanging from a utility belt over his ballistic, fitted armor. People in this part of town knew the mark of an Ordained Prelate when they saw one. The traffic was thick with rickshaws, motorbikes and for those who could afford them, armored, solar-powered cars. The heat from the southern California sun beat down upon the vast expanse of Los Angeles, and the paved surfaces of the city conducted heat that added to sweltering temperatures. Adding to the misery was hazy smoke from a nearby wildfire that had been burning out of control for some time.
After some time, Prescott reached his destination; the Church of New Megiddo Deaconess Building. Of all the surrounding architecture, the most ornate and archaic looking was the Deaconess Building. The alloy used for the exterior was shaped and textured to mimic ashen stone of a medieval style. Prescott thought that “Horror Vacui” or “fear of empty spaces” could be a term used to describe the facade of the building, with its cramped ornamentation in the stone edifice. He approached the heavy, wooden double doors and sent a message via his neural implant to Church officials within that he had arrived. After a few moments, the wooden, double doors opened of their own accord. Prescott walked in. Two Law of Virtue Enforcement Rangers met him, then escorted him through a dimly lit corridor. The L.E.D. lighting was set in fixtures of fake torches, which occurred with regularity along the walls. The Rangers led him into a spacious chamber, similar to a throne room, but decorated utilitarian furniture. At the far end of the room sat an obese man dressed black and white regalia. He was perched upon a stiff, roughly hewn, wooden throne. The seal of the Church was blazoned above him.
“Ah, Prescott. Please come closer—” The Deacon was taken aback by the strange helmet encasing Prescott’s head, “What is that helmet you wear?” He struggled to sit upright as he spoke.
“Deacon Robertson, I apologize. I was wounded in combat and required reconstructive surgery. This helmet helps in the healing process,” Prescott said, bowing slightly.
“If you say so. All I care about is that it doesn’t impede you from your tasks. Are you ready for a contract?” Deacon Robertson spouted through a chubby, red face. Prescott thought that the man loved his drink and red meat too passionately.
“By all means, Deacon. That is the reason I stand before you,” Prescott stated impatiently, his voice muffled from the H.A.T.
“Perfect. Then by power vested in me by God Almighty, I hereby ordain you, Prescott Zimmerman Junior, under contract with the Church of New Megiddo, to hunt down and bring to the Lord’s Justice the souls of the wicked Apostates, and those who would seek to do our Faith harm,” the fat Deacon recited with some haste.
“Very good. So, who is my query?” Prescott asked.
“Yes, your query will be a leading agitator of the Apostate class somewhere in the slums of Los Angeles,” was all Deacon Robertson said. Prescott stood silent for a moment, attempting to suppress the urge to itch his face; knowing it would be futile.
“Am I correct to assume that you have additional information on my target?” he asked.
“Correct. Your target is known in certain circles as the “Slum Sage”,” Deacon Robertson recalled.
“That’s it?” Prescott pressed
“Come again?” The Deacon asked in disbelief.
“Surely you must have more than just this tidbit of information?” Prescott spoke with some degree of snark.
“Listen, Prelate, that is your job. You do whatever it takes to get paid. The Church deals with matters of faith; you deal without enemies. Now, I suggest getting to it,” Deacon Robertson said with a dismissive hand. It seemed to Prescott that the Deacon wanted to go back to napping.
“Very well, Deacon, I will carry out the contract,” Prescott said, again bowing his helmet, then turned and exited the building. Once again, walking down the street, he turned his thoughts to his target, the “Slum Sage”. He thought that this moniker did not sound like that of a fighter. It seemed to Prescott that his target was more likely to be a cult leader and intellectual of some sort. He felt conflicted about
his contract, but the bounty was considerable, so it troubled Prescott less to think of the reward.
⍟ ⍟ ⍟
A QUIVER FULL OF ARROWS
She held her newborn carefully in her arms. Her blonde locks rested gently on the baby’s bear head. She watched her baby sleep through the scrolling words overlaid on her retinal H.U.D. As she read the copy from the genetic diagnosis report she sobbed quietly. The report informed her that her son had been born with Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis. It told her that her son would have a few years of normal development before the disease would manifest symptoms. She finished reading the report and then willed the text window closed, and sat in the hospital bed staring down at her child. The Reverend Wilhelm Wainwright had appeared to the child through the recently installed neural implant, and he had blessed the child of the First Daughter. Kate Schrubb realized the irony of her situation; what should have been a joyous occasion was tainted by the news. She turned to morbid thoughts about her baby growing older and suffering with the horrible degenerative disease. Then a darker thought flashed through her mind. She could take her child’s life; a mercy killing, and she could get away with it too, for she was the President’s daughter. Then, she came back to her senses. Kate resigned herself to the reality that she faced.
Kate carefully cradled her son in her arms. The labor had been painful and her son was big for a newborn. She endured the labor without the father present. Only her bodyguard detail was present in the room, aside from the medical staff. Her husband, Martino Franco, was the premiere Regime scientist. He was a genius in many different disciplines; a renaissance man. He was the type of intellectual that only comes around once a generation, and New Megiddo’s “brain-drain” made him a ‘hot commodity’. Of course, this also meant that he worked most of his waking hours, and thus was not present at his son’s birth. Kate would not forget this transgression. But, more importantly she blamed Martino’s age and genes for the plight of her child.