The Apostates Book Two: Remnants

by Lars Teeney

  “So, Consuela, it looks like you have become quite proficient with that plasma spear. Pretty impressive,” Evan confessed, making conversation.

  “Well, it is pretty similar to rifle and bayonet techniques which I had studied profusely,” she stated.

  “True. I’d rather see the ‘Spear of Destiny’ in your hands than one of those Order of the Pentagram lunatics,” Evan exclaimed.

  “That is an understatement, Evan,” she remarked.

  “So, what will you do when you get back home?” Evan asked.

  “I am going to liberate my country, and if all goes well, create a new government that will not easily be subverted by criminal or religious organizations,” Consuela stated confidently.

  “I am certainly rooting for you in your struggle,” Evan confessed.

  “I must say, that meal wasn’t bad. So—tired,” Consuela exclaimed while yawning.

  “Go ahead, get some sleep. I'm going to be up for quite awhile,” Evan offered, cocking his head up to the first towering shelf of files.

  ⍟ ⍟ ⍟

  Evan had spent countless hours trying to make sense of the mass of files. Some shelves had collapsed and had spilled its many artifacts into heaps on the floor, which were unreadable mostly due to water damage. Eventually, after much toil, he had isolated archives pertaining to the Twentieth Century to a single shelf toward the rear of the space. Consuela had gone to sleep long ago and her quiet snores offered up airy echoes. Evan was able to make a rapid pace sorting much of the boxes, as many contained files about the first half of the Twentieth Century. After much more sorting and rummaging Evan spied a large, metal box. On top was a faded, white label, and in permanent black marker was written, “Action Organization, 1970s, and 80s”. This was confirmation that Evan had found what he was looking for.

  Evan grabbed the lion-head cane and configured the blade into a tapered diamond shape, and he plunged the metal box and was opened like a fish-tin. Inside he found various files, newspaper clippings, artifacts, testimonials, official complaints and microfilm on the history of the ‘Action’ Organization.

  He picked up a musty newspaper that was dated to 1973. The article in the Philadelphia Inquirer chronicled scathing complaints about the ‘Action’ Organization being a public nuisance. It spoke of numerous complaints filed by neighbors and of altercations with police, where several members had been arrested. The article went on to describe certain practices of ‘Action’ such as following the teachings of the spiritual leader of the group, Johnny Nubia. They had shunned technology like phones and television, grew their own food, and kept their children naked. It told how Johnny Nubia condemned modern society and Capitalism, and that how he said that his people would only find social justice in an entirely separate system. The article also went into the membership, speaking to the fact that while there were members of various ethnicities the majority were African American. Each member once joining would relinquish their given family name and would take the surname of ‘Nubia’, like the founder.

  Evan put the paper aside and came upon a police report of a public disturbance. The report told the perspective of a neighbor that had been disturbed by a loudspeaker that had been rigged to the exterior of the ‘Action’ house, that blared anti-Capitalist propaganda around the clock. According to similar reports that Evan found it did not seem that the organization shared much love with its neighbors. He also found a copy of Johnny Nubia's Bible; a strange mix of Christian theology and Marxist ideology. He was thoroughly intrigued.

  Under a pile of photographs of what looked like a man being beaten by several P.P.D. officers was an official report of a raid on the first ‘Action’ house. It spoke of an internal investigation on several officers who used excessive force and were accused of planting evidence. The investigation was inconclusive and no action was taken. Evan let out a sigh and rubbed his brow. This was not the information he was hoping to find in the archive. It seemed to him that the Twentieth Century before the formation of New Megiddo was not a beacon of light after all; somehow, he had known this. He continued to dig through the contents of the box. Then he found something of interest, a file with a picture of an inferno. The date was labeled, “October 5, 1985”. Evan fingered this file with great interest and began to consume the story that it told.

  ⍟ ⍟ ⍟

  TO THE END OF THE EARTH

  West Europa had been a culture shock to Greta. Everything about the society had been alien to her. Socially, it was wide open. Materially, much more abundant than New Megiddo ever had been. In time, she had gotten used to it. What she never quite got used to was how the French Ministers gloated to her about how Europa still regularly sends satellites into orbit. She tolerated it because she was being granted asylum in West Europa, and she wanted a safe place to raise her son. Greta could hardly believe the events that she had experienced within the last year; it all seemed so surreal to her. She had died and been resurrected, taken part in a successful rebellion, had a child, and expatriated to a foreign civilization. Despite all that the French people and Paris had to offer, Greta still found herself longing for the land she had fled.

  Today, Greta had come to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. A summons had been served to her, and she did not want to jeopardize her refugee status by not appearing, so here she was. Greta waited patiently in an ornate lobby furnished with colonial period furniture, to a trained eye: replicas. She had been waiting over an hour to meet with Minister Laurent Du Gaul, and she had nothing to make the time pass, save for some musty magazines printed in French and a couple ancient video games that Marco had installed in her retinal Heads Up Display the year before. She decided to play ‘Solitaire’ on her H.U.D. Ever since New Megiddo City had been destroyed the [Virtue-Net] had been offline, so she could not ‘surf’ to pass the time. No sooner than she started winning the game she was called by the ministry assistant, who told her to follow. Greta hurried through opulent double doors into a back office. When she entered she gazed upon a tall, bald man, dressed in a tailored suit, who stared out a window framed with silken, white curtains. She cleared her throat to get his attention. He turned and smiled.

  “Ah! Mademoiselle Sanchez, please, please, come in—sit!” Minister Du Gaul said frantically while hurrying over and pulling a chair out for her which faced his desk. She took a seat.

  “Thank you, Minister,” she said, nodding.Hewalkedcasually back to his plush chair, keeping his eyes on her as he moved. He plopped into the chair with the grace of a sandbag dropping.

  “May I call you Greta?” he asked.

  “Sure,” she confirmed, slightly perturbed.

  “Would you care if I smoke? Care for one?” Du Gaul asked, holding out a pack.

  “No thanks—but it's your office so go ahead,” she gestured for him to poison himself.

  “Greta1 You are such a fascinating creature to me. New Megiddo has been closed off for so long that I have never met—I guess you could say—an American! Enchanting,” he said though a cloud of cigarette smoke.

  “Well, sir—you have boatloads of Americans here as well, and boatloads en route via the Neo Railroad. I'm not so exotic,” Greta stated with increasing frustration.

  “Oh, but you are. A figure of epic proportions! A rebel leader and person of great influence. You know, long ago France and America used to be allies—albeit, lop-sided allies,” Minister Du Gaul recounted.

  “Minister, I am afraid I do not follow you. Why did you call me here?” Greta questioned his intentions.

  “Please, I would just like to speak of bygone times. Did you know that West Europa launches satellites into orbit, and our scientists are making breakthroughs every month? There was a time in the past in which America had led the world in scientific advances. Indeed America once had all the advantages and the country squandered those advantages willingly,” Minister Du Gaul recounted.

  “Yes—I know some of the story though not all of it—because as you kn
ow, I recently escaped New Megiddo. But, surely you didn’t ask me here to give me a history lesson about my own country?” Greta asked sarcastically.

  “This story is part of the point I am trying to make. America, at the beginning of the Twenty-first Century, squandered its advantages by allowing the Constitutional protections of its citizens to be undermined by special interests. The result was the manifestation of a class of oligarchs that dominated the political process—which eroded the middle-class—and with more people living in poverty and without education, more turned to religion, particularly, of a fundamentalist strain. One of the Oligarch families who took advantage of this strife and discontent within the masses was the Schrubb Family—” the Minister was interrupted.

  “I am aware of John W. Schrubb’s rise to power. I also understand that the terror attack in New York, at the beginning of the Twent-first Century, had united everyone, virtually giving him dictatorial powers in a time of crisis, and that he never quite let the powers go. What of it?” Greta tried to speed along his speech to uncover the Minister’s intent.

  “My dear, Greta, the rise of New Megiddo was not just a problem for your people. Before this—Holy War—as the Regime had dubbed it, West Europa was engaged in a ‘Cold War’ of sorts with New Megiddo, they sent their L.O.V.E. agents into virtually all rival countries to destabilize them, always having a hand in our affairs—sponsoring coups, spreading propaganda, false flag incidents—you name it,” the Minister informed her. Greta shifted her weight in her seat, visually annoyed.

  “I appreciate the information, really I do, but was does this have to do with the reason you called me here? What does this have to do with the current situation?” she asked.

  “I called you here to reiterate the hospitality of West Europa and specifically, the French!” Du Gaul exclaimed as he dashed his cigarette.

  “You have my heartfelt thanks for taking in my compatriots and I. We appreciate the asylum you have granted us,” she admitted, hoping to get to the point.

  “I am glad to hear that. Greta, you and your fellow refugees could be so much more than that. From the reports I have read, there is no government in...America right now. Think of what you could accomplish should you choose to take up the mantle of power,” he recited. To her it did sound like a recital; like his speech had been rehearsed. It now dawned on her what Minister Du Gaul was suggesting.

  “I am afraid I am not built for being a politician. I am more of a woman of action, if you catch my meaning?” she said plainly. He sighed and folded his hands behind his head.

  “I can tell you this: West Europa Intelligence has a presence in America right now. There is a power vacuum. Factions are plotting their moves, to fight over the scraps. The Regime still has substantial concentrations of armed forces left, and I have received word that the Chinese are mounting reconnaissance missions down from Alaska,” The Minister took on a more serious tone.

  “Okay, so what does this have to do with me? I am aware of the threats, they are to be expected with the fall of a government.” Greta shrugged.

  “These threats are not acceptable to the security of West Europa. We have lived too long under the threat from New Megiddo and we will not accept a new, fundamentalist regime taking power to threaten our interests once more,” Du Gaul stated with a furled brow. She detected a resolve in his words to take extreme measures if necessary.

  “What is it you propose? And how does it involve me?” Greta inquired.

  “I—France—well, West Europa is offering you an opportunity to set up a legitimate government in America. Undercut all other vying factions. We can provide you with the strength you need to achieve this end,” Du Gaul proposed. Greta stared straight ahead, saying nothing. She could extrapolate what accepting European military assistance against all other factions would mean. If they installed her to power, her government would be a West Europa puppet. She needed to buy herself time.

  “Interesting proposal. Minister Du Gaul, I would need to take it under consideration. I hope you can understand that I cannot make a decision just yet,” she said, she stood up.

  “Of course, of course. Take your time. In the mean time my country will continue to welcome your refugees, I assure you,” he said with a smile while he shook her hand profusely. Greta did not appreciate the verbal jab. So, she took her leave, somewhat in a huff.

  ⍟ ⍟ ⍟

  Greta had stormed out of the French Ministry of Foreign Affairs Building and had drew shocked eyes from those who had witnessed her display. She could not fathom the nerve of Minister Du Gaul to suggest that Greta head a government in America subservient to West Europa. Using the issue of accepting refugees as leverage was something she couldn’t tolerate, but what could she do about it? Elsa Wynham had revealed that West Europa and the North African Union had largely financed the Apostate Coup. This fact also meant that West Europa would expect a return on their investment. Greta dreaded the thought of a European invasion of North America. Maybe it would be better for her to be at the head of that invasion force if an invasion was inevitable?

  Greta had been in such deep thought that she had not realized how far she had walked. Greta had made her way along the waterfront of the Seine River, crossed the Pont de l'Alma Bridge and now she traveled through the glitz and glamor of the Champs-Élysée. Once the anger of her experience with the Minister had faded she began to notice the splendor around her. Over the last year in Paris, she had not done any sightseeing, partly because of her pregnancy and partly because she had been plotting the Apostates next moves. She had been obsessed with the refugee situation, but more so, she longed for her old home. Greta also missed her friends, Evan, and Consuela. She hoped that both of them were still safe.

  Greta peered down the Champs-Élysée and found that she was approaching the fabled Arc de Triomphe. The reconstructed Arc had been destroyed during what the Regime of New Megiddo had labeled the “Holy War”. In fact, many of the cities in Europe had been leveled during the war against Russia. The new Arc de Triomphe no longer touted the military victories of Napoleon Bonaparte, it now told of the victory of the European Coalition over the Russian Empire, which had been allies with New Megiddo in the war. Greta approached the base of the Arc and examined a carved relief. She was shocked to find out that the French had called the ‘Holy War’, ‘La Troisième Guerre Mondiale’, or World War Three. The plaque near the relief told the story of the war, how the Allies, the Europeans and the Chinese overcame the Theocratic Powers: New Megiddo and the Russian Empire. She also read the terrible cost the European’s had paid for victory over the Russians after most of Europe had been overrun. After a year of barbaric fighting in the ruined cities of Paris, Brussels, and Barcelona (with heavy support from Britain and the North African Union), the Russians ran out of momentum. Spread thin and exhausted of resources they became vulnerable to counterattacks. It took a generation for Europe to rebuild, what they wouldn’t get back were a third of the population that had perished.

  Suddenly, Greta’s neural implant was being pinged from a strange source. Ever since the [Virtue-Net] and [Apostate-Net] went offline she had not received many calls. Greta decided to accept the communication.

  “Yes?” Greta was not very friendly.

  “Gale-Whirlwind?” The man who appeared on her retinal H.U.D. wore a blue head wrap and appeared to be middle aged with a thin mustache.

  “No—I don’t go by the name anymore. It was just—Look, who is this?” Greta was perturbed by the call, which added to her previous frustration,

  “Many apologies Ms. Sanchez, for the abrupt call. I am Yusef Battuta. I serve as the Chief Advisor and General to his Eminence, Sultan Al-Hakam of the North African Union. My government wanted me to contact you,” Yusef declared.

  “Uh—Okay. Well you have contacted me. What can I do—wait—how did you reach me? How did you get this tech?” The realization that the neural implant technology had spread
beyond AmericahitGretalike a punch to the face.

  “Forgive me, Ms. Sanchez. Your associate, Simon Schrubb has been on a humanitarian tour, offering neural networking to nations without it. I recently received the installation operation,” Yusef confessed.

  “As for why I contacted you, well, I understand that you are a refugee in a strange land. I offer—” Yusef was cut off by Greta.

  “Simon is creating neural networks? How?” she asked in surprise.

  “Sorry? He is the son of Martino Franco, yes? Anyhow, I contacted you because New Megiddo has fallen. You, Greta, are the obvious choice to bring America back to greatness.The Regime of New Megiddo was blinded. They worshiped a false God: infidels they were. My nation can offer you assistance, to bring the light of the True Faith—” Again Yusef was interrupted.

  “I need to stop you right there, Yusef. Why would I want to trade one theocracy for another? No thank you, sir,” Greta scoffed.

  “You misunderstand me. You cannot lump us together. Islam is a religion of peace!” Yusef pressed.

  “That’s what they all say! Excuse me, Yusef, I have some sightseeing to do. Bye!” Greta cut the communication short. At this point, Greta was ready to scream. Twice in one a day a major power had tried to manipulate her into being their puppet. She realized, suddenly, that they would not be the only ones jockeying to fill the void of power in America. There will be a new war to fight over the remnants. Greta knew what she had to do. She would need to return to America to prevent a new war. There was one person she knew that could help Greta return on her own terms without being at the mercy of a foreign army. Greta pinged Elsa Wynham.

  “This is Elsa Wynham of the Neo Railroad. Greta?” Elsa asked with a smile.

  “Yes! Elsa, it is good to see your face!” Greta exclaimed.

  “Same to you! You are looking good but flushed,” Elsa observed.