The Apostates

by Lars Teeney

  “Well, Arch-Deacon, you seem to have found the Order at the most opportune of times. Tell me what you need to accomplish,” Carafa inquired.

  “I am, or rather my Church, is in need of your Order to stop a group of Apostates. Not any ordinary group of infidels, they have been supported from someone within our government. They seem to have fixed up old, derelict warships and turned them into a makeshift fleet. We believe that they are sailing for the Panama Strait. What we need from your Order is to stop them from making the crossing,” von Manstein briefed Carafa about the contract, “Will you accept this ordainment?”

  “The enemy of any Church of God is my enemy. I shall accept your ordainment. Fortunately, I am well positioned to intercept this Apostate fleet. I am currently in Cost Rica. I do not have far to travel to get to the Strait,” Carafa explained.

  “Most excellent, Carafa. This will work out well for both parties. By the authority invested in me by the Lord, God, I ordain you an agent of the Church of New Megiddo,” von Manstein instructed.

  “Then the matter is settled. I will bring your enemies to judgment!” Carafa exclaimed.

  “Let us pray that is the outcome. Keep me posted, Monsignor Carafa. Arch-Deacon von Manstein out,” he closed the channel. von Manstein was elated. He felt that he had ordained agents that could possibly destroy the Apostates and put Prelate Inoguchi out of action. In one fell swoop, his problems would be over.

  “Driver, I am ready to tour the venue now,” he instructed. Now he was in a very good mood and he would enjoy this tour. Not even the suffering masses of refugees would dampen his spirits this day.

  ⍟ ⍟ ⍟

  Inquisitor Rodrigo had a very good week. He had put down a plot by Graham Wynham to overthrow the President. He was just in time to prevent the recruitment of the President’s son into the cabal. Also, he had rooted out the Apostate’s mole within the Church. Inquisitor Rodrigo now had plenty of the accused to begin a proper Inquisition. It’s what he was put on the Earth to do: elicit the truth from the condemned through specialized methods. Rodrigo’s conviction rate was perfect. No one had ever withstood his methods. He had always received his confession.

  To potentially receive confessions from such esteemed and reputable individuals was, to put it lightly, an Inquisitor’s dream. Previously this class of individual had been untouchable by his predecessors. Now he, Alfonse Domingo Rodrigo, last Inquisitor of the Church of New Megiddo would be rewarded by the Lord in the Second Coming, which was nigh. The end of times required extreme measures so that no power was capable of stopping what was planned.

  Inquisitor Rodrigo had entered a dressing room near the holding cells for the accused. It was featureless metal, save for a rack that supported black robes and accompanying headgear. Rodrigo selected a robe and headgear. He slipped the robe over his uniform. It was matte black, with hints of a darker stain in some places. The headpiece that he put on was matte black as well. It covered the head and terminated in a cone-shaped point. There was an eye slit to allow for vision. He resembled some torturer from a bygone age.

  The Inquisitor was now ready to proceed with his grim practice. He and two assistants moved toward an occupied holding cell. They unlocked the rusty, metal door and stepped inside. Within the dank room was a steel rigging that restrained and supported the weary figure of Cardinal Zhukov. Zhukov looked worse for wear. There were signs that he had already been beaten and interrogated by lower level officials. This did not phase Rodrigo. He figured they had used the wrong methods, and therefore, there was still pertinent information to dig up. Rodrigo set down a titanium case onto a roughly constructed, wooden table. The wood lacked a stain and it was pockmarked with scrapes and scars.

  Cardinal Zhukov let out a whimper every time he heard a sudden noise. Zhukov could see nothing with his blindfold and his neural implant had been jammed, although the jamming technology was fairly unreliable. He seemed terrified. The Inquisitor opened the latches on the case and revealed the tools of his trade. On one side of the interior was an assortment of ‘Database’ like injectable drugs.. On the other side were strapped more conventional instruments of “enhanced interrogation techniques”. There were pliers, various knives and scalpels, a small jeweler’s hammer, and several other tools. The Inquisitor intentionally rattled the contents together to instigate a reaction from Zhukov. He received a high-pitched plea to God for salvation and a trickle of urine down the Cardinal’s leg.

  “Cardinal Zhukov, you had it all: the world in your grasp and were so close to joining your Lord in Paradise. Now look at you,” the Inquisitor mocked, pulling a dose of ‘Database’ from his case and slamming it shut. Zhukov jumped and let out a whimper.

  “Please, please, Rodrigo, I beg of you, don’t do this. I was framed! I am not—” Zhukov was cut short.

  “You are not a Cardinal any longer. You are just the short, fat, bald, little man: Zhukov. Traitor to his religion, and now in my capable hands,” the Inquisitor snidely mocked under his intimidating hood.

  “Sir, please—I did not betray the Church! I was framed by Arch-Deacon von Manstein!” Zhukov pleaded while he tried to maneuver his head.

  “You know, you might be telling the truth. You could very well have been framed, but you see, that is not my job. My job is to...entice you to confess to the crimes that you have been accused of by the Church of New Megiddo and the Ministry of State Security, and boy, do I enjoy enticing confessions.” The Inquisitor toyed with his victim.

  “P-p-please, I implore you. You’ll be making a big mistake. You’re letting the real culprits go free!” Zhukov screamed and pleaded.

  “Oh no, I will get those names out of you as well,” The inquisitor said calmly, as he stuck the tiny needle into Zhukov’s shoulder, the drug drained out of the applicator and into Zhukov’s blood stream. Synthetic proteins encoded with special data raced through his veins en route to the neural implant. The proteins interfaced with receptors and transferred their data. Zhukov’s vision began to grow blurred and dim. His eyes started to sting and his speech came out slurred. Zhukov experienced faint images superimposed onto reality. Then his blindfold was pulled off by the Inquisitor and the Zhukov squealed once confronted with the nightmarish sight.

  The hooded figure in front of him was jet black, with piercing, fiery eyes and trails of smoke emanating from a jagged-tooth mouth. Its voice was sadistic and guttural. The snapping jaw clicked its teeth.

  “Zhukov! Zhukov! We know you work with the Apostates! What is contained within the encrypted partition in your neural implant!” The creature snapped and threatened.

  “N-n-no! Please! It’s a mistake!” Zhukov tried to shirk away; tried to shield himself, but he was totally restrained.

  “Zzzzzhukov. You dirty, old man, you. Haven’t you had your share of young flesh in your day? What do you think those poor souls were experiencing when you pushed their faces into your sheets?” the black creature hissed.

  “No more..No..please...” Zhukov could barely speak, paralyzed with fear.

  “How about we share their experience with you? A little demonstration?” The cone-shaped head of the creature screeched and spit.

  “N-n-no.” Zhukov tried to protest.

  “Then, tell us—tell us what we want to know. Give us access,” the voice hissed through crooked, sharp teeth.

  “But, I can’t! I don’t know where it came from—Please!” Zhukov protested.

  “So, sad. I guess we must proceed. You force us!” the crooked-toothed beast moved around to the back of Zhukov, who was strapped into the steel rig that suspended him. The tearing of garments could be heard as the ashen, tar colored beast assumed a position of dominance over the restrained victim. Zhukov‘s eyes drew wide as the horror of being violated was imposed upon his body. The ghastly demon cackled with delight, as it had its way with the former Cardinal. Zhukov shrieked in pain and terror and grimaced. He could not fathom how long his torment had lasted, a couple hours or a couple seconds? Zhukov opened his
eyes. The creature was gone, and the Inquisitor stood in front of Zhukov, staring intently.

  “Zhukov, hey, Zhukov? Do you have something you want to tell me?” Inquisitor Rodrigo asked coyly. He had his black hood off and was just inches away from Zhukov’s face.

  “I-I-It must be the Arch-Deacon von Manstein! He must be behind it—he’s the mole. He’s trying to deflect attention! Please believe me!” Zhukov was telling the truth, but it didn’t seem to matter what he said. His mind was in a state of chaos and he could not determine if the previous events had actually occurred.

  “Poor Zhukov. You haven’t really picked up on how this works. You give me access to the encrypted partition, and give names of collaborators. Then this all ends,” Inquisitor Rodrigo stated.

  “I can’t tell you anything! I know nothing, please!” Zhukov could barely speak.

  “That’s not how our little game works.” Inquisitor Rodrigo walked over to his case on the table, placing the black hood back on his head. He reached into the case and pulled out another injection applicator, then he snatched up a pair of pliers. Inquisitor Rodrigo approached Zhukov, who began to tremble.

  “N-n-n-no!” was all Zhukov could muster. Inquisitor Rodrigo jammed the applicator into Zhukov’s arm. The drug entered his blood stream. The world went fuzzy for Zhukov again. A bubble encased him. The black, tar covered creature was back, snarling at Zhukov. He could only manage a terrified, slack jaw expression, as he dreaded what would come next.

  “You dirty, perverse man. Now we shall remove your naughty bits! Make it impossible for you to violate another.” The creature’s saliva was oozing tar, dripping from its mouth in thick strands. It brandished the pair of pliers and clicked them threateningly, by Zhukov’s face.

  “Oh god, oh god! Please, no. The mole is von Manstein...von Manstein,” Zhukov feebly protested, to no avail.

  “You disappoint, Zhukov. You are no man. Only men deserve a full set.” The black beast knelt down and tore through Zhukov’s undergarments leaving him ragged and exposed. Zhukov struggled and tensed up, but could not break free. The demonic creature moved the pliers closer to Zhukov’s fragile bits and clamped onto one side. Zhukov shrieked and cried like an infant.

  “I beg you! No!” Zhukov managed to blurt through clenched teeth.

  “I’m afraid not,” the creature growled, and with two hands and a great deal of force he violently pulled the pliers downward. The teeth of the pliers had broken the skin and pulled masses of flesh with it, spilling Zhukov’s lifeblood onto the cold, hard, concrete floor. Zhukov let out a guttural yelp, and high pitch screams, then he began to speak.

  “I-I-I’m the mole, f-f-for god’s sake, I’m the mole, please...no more—” Zhukov managed to get it out over the impossible pain. He fought to focus his eyes, and the creature was not there, nor was there blood or the sensation of any bit of him was missing. But, the pain still lingered and was the most realistic thing in the room.

  Inquisitor Rodrigo was standing by the table supporting his case, putting tools away, “That wasn’t so hard, Zhukov, now was it?” Inquisitor Rodrigo asked sadistically.

  “B-B-but, ahh...” Zhukov passed out from exhaustion and fear.

  “No, no. Stay with me,” Inquisitor Rodrigo tried to rouse him, “Shit, his brain cannot handle the dosage. We’ll have to give him a break. Onto the next patient,” Inquisitor Rodrigo exclaimed with some degree of pleasure. He snapped his case shut and turned out the light.

  ⍟ ⍟ ⍟

  Graham had been successful at making a data transfer stealthily into Cardinal Zhukov’s neural implant. He had gambled that it would take L.O.V.E. at least several weeks to break the encryption on the files and by that time the Apostates would have already made their move. Graham had nothing left to lose. Rodrigo had seen to that, but he wouldn’t jeopardize the Apostate’s mission just to avoid some pain and suffering. At this point, Graham had seen the worst of it, whatever was done to his physical body would be negligible to him.

  Graham had hoped that his wife and children were in a better place, somewhere that the Church had not dreamed of. At the very least they were resting peacefully. As he had those thoughts, he remembered that it could have been a drug-induced hallucination, but he had no way to prove it. Even if it wasn’t he was in a L.O.V.E. dungeon and wasn’t likely to survive this place. It was better to let them go, dead or alive. False hope would kill him before Rodrigo ever did.

  The only thing Graham could look forward to now was further sessions with Rodrigo and the hope—the only hope that mattered—whether Ravine-Gulch would succeed. Ravine had been special from the outset. He was lucky to have the right temperament for Graham’s need. If Ravine had been a well-adjusted, self-respecting individual the plan would probably not work. But, Ravine was a self-doubting, drug abusing, suicidal and emotional wreck. The perfect psychological profile for the job.

  All the other Apostates he had selected were certain pieces of the puzzle, each with their own special part to play; they all possessed amazing talents and detrimental flaws. Hades-Perdition was almost perfect in every way when it came to a combat setting, but he was a sexual deviant, marked by the Regime. Gale-Whirlwind was a natural leader and soldier; she had descended from war heroes, but she was also impulsive, unpredictable and she had been suicidal. Aqua-Deluge was also effective in combat situations, but she had a sexual addiction to the point where she became a prostitute, but not for the money. Blaze-Scorch was a gifted physician and surgeon, but her lust for wealth had blinded her and destroyed her career. Pale-Silence had a penchant for stealth and subterfuge but was unusually cruel and sadistic. But, Angel-Seraphim, he knew nothing about, she had been recruited by Pale-Silence without Graham’s knowledge.

  The success of the Apostates was the one thing that kept him going now. Graham at least wanted to feel the elation of knowing that the populace would be out from under the iron grip of John W. Schrubb: a man who should have died over sixty years ago, and The Reverend Wilhelm: a spiritual leader who never showed his face in public and pulled the strings from the shadows. The Schrubb siblings were just President Schrubb’s impressionable progeny, and they couldn’t totally be blamed for their actions. The Church hierarchy were all cowardly: old men who largely just wanted an excessive, elderly life. The worst of them all was the Inquisitor Rodrigo: the sadistic maniac. He was the biggest threat.

  Graham was giving way to a terrible depression. He had been a prisoner for at least a week. He had lost track of days and had no way to tell the time, save for the clock in his retinal H.U.D. and the background processes that the encrypted partition kept running in the event he needed to transmit final orders or delete data. He only hoped that the attention he diverted to Cardinal Zhukov kept Rodrigo occupied long enough for the Apostates to do their jobs.

  Graham’s mind wandered erratically. He was searching for ways to occupy his mind and to not focus on the pain of having his limbs bound in one spot. The humiliation of being hooked up to a colostomy apparatus was almost too much bear. His mind suddenly focused on and old memory he had become aware of when he drank with the Schrubb siblings one night. Graham remembered that Kate and Keir had told him their father, long ago, had made arrangements with the Vatican. In those days before the Holy War, New Megiddo had maintained relations with the Vatican. In President Schrubb’s newly ignited religious zeal, he had started plans back then that were now culminating in the present. President Schrubb had been tipped-off that the Vatican had for time immemorial raised in secret what they claimed to be descendants of ‘divine origin’. They had no way to verify the truth, but President Schrubb had recognized the religious authority of the Papacy. The Schrubb siblings had told Graham that it was rumored that their father arranged a certain purchase. That night when Graham was finished drinking with the Schrubbs, he decided he would look into the rumor. He found that the rumor had been true and used his connections for a fateful operation.

  But all of this was a long time ago, and hardly of releva
nce to him in his current state. Graham wondered how much time he had left before he received a return visit from Rodrigo. Graham’s mind was foggy, and he felt confused. The feeling was somehow familiar, like when he had been a ‘base’ addict in younger days. He surmised that if Rodrigo kept giving him specialized ‘base’ that it would do permanent damage to his brain. Graham would not be able to handle much more.

  ⍟ ⍟ ⍟

  Inquisitor Rodrigo analyzed the situation. Cardinal Zhukov did not have a high a tolerance to Rodrigo’s interrogation strain of ‘Database’, his mind would not hold out for another dose. On the other hand Graham Wynham had been a ‘base-head’ in his younger days. He could theoretically handle another couple doses and still be kept sane for a trial at the B.A.G. Rodrigo thought Graham might be harboring additional information that could be useful to him. He also figured he’d have more time to manipulate Graham into giving him access to the encrypted partition in his neural implant.

  “Well, the matter is settled. It will be Graham who I visit next. I have a special strain for him. Something that is sure to cause an impact.” Even Rodrigo had realized how “mustache twirly” his plot sounded, but the stakes were high and he needed some tangible results.

  Inquisitor Rodrigo summoned his aides and fetched his black robes for another session. Rodrigo was draped in black, with the nightmarish cone-shaped hood atop his head. He carried his briefcase containing the torture instruments of his trade. They opened the creaky, metal, cell door. Graham was hanging in the position they had left him in. His head hung limp. Rodrigo dropped his chrome case on the rough-planked wooden table with a thud. The sound jarred Graham, and he had flinched. He looked up with weary, exhausted eyes.

  “Inquisitor, you’re back. I take it you aren’t here to free me, seeing as how you got the information you wanted.” Graham had said half joking. He watched the Inquisitor move toward him.