The Heretics of St. Possenti

by Rolf Nelson

  “If we use it as job training, our labor costs would be low, too,” added Bill. “Effectively zero, in fact. Save money there—might even have enough to buy guns with. Or maybe we pay the brothers a training wage, and they donate most of it to a charity, such as a monastery for food supplies. It’s all effectively tax free. Not quite a closed loop, but something like that.”

  “Hmmm… May be other ways to run it,” mused Mickey. “Pay the ammo tax on the cases we ship, keep on the up-and-up with the feds, of course, but none on the rounds we shoot at the abbey. Yes, the church might not want its founding grant being used for buying guns, so that might be a way to fund them. Unless they are a really good deal.”

  “I’m not a business major, but I’ve heard enough of them in here talking,” added Erika, “that I think if you set up a couple of shell-corporations as religious nonprofit charities, having six or more board members—even if it’s the same six guys on each—that shuffle money between them, you could have everything be tax-free. Adds a layer of paperwork in order to avoid a massive other layer of accounting and paperwork.”

  “A good idea, even if a bit distasteful-sounding.” Bishop Cranberry looked as though he didn’t relish the idea of tap-dancing around tax law and canon law at the same time.

  “Parents don’t tell the details of life to their young children because they don’t need to know. The kids just like the roof over their heads and food on the table.”

  “The Church is not some toddling child, Mickey.”

  “Old parents, young kids, same thing, in a way. Like when kids don’t tell the parents about the present they are making for them by hand in the shop. As long as the end result is good, and nothing too damaging happens along the way, and the more questionable actions are properly dealt with, it’s all good. But asking permission for most of these details will get nuked from orbit with extreme prejudice. Be vague enough about the specifics that it sounds plausible but not scary. We should be able to set up the books to be sufficiently opaque that anyone in the Church who wants to believe can find everything in order, and the tax-man with an ax to grind can’t find anything specific to object to, legally-speaking. If Hollywood, the mob, and politicians can do it, we can, too.”

  “You are not inspiring me with confidence that what we are aiming to do is right, let alone legal.”

  “Hey, when the devil is writing the tax code, the least we can do is render unto Caesar as little as we are legally required to. One corporation for the land, another for buildings, one for the equipment, one for gun parts, another for the manufacturing operation, one for the food-service stuff, another for the training arm, one for class-three stuff—”

  “Class three?”

  “Suppressors and machine guns and such. Another as a holding company to actually own the registered part of the guns, a few more on general principles to either own things, lease things, or do things, but never all three with the same items.”

  “Machine guns? Surely you are joking. And why suppressors?” asked Bill.

  “Guns with a giggle-switch are unlikely, but possible. Cans are more likely. Don’t want to annoy the local cows too much. Suppressed gunfire is much more polite than ordinary. Not silent, just… a wee tad more neighborly.”

  The others thought over the implications and general concepts presented so casually. It took a few seconds before anyone spoke again.

  Erika looked at Thomas across the table. “Know what you are going to call yourselves yet?”

  Thomas shook his head. Mickey grinned and nodded. “Order of St. Possenti. The patron saint of handgunners.”

  “There is a patron saint for gunnies?” Erika said in surprise.

  Finnegan nodded. “A lesser-known one to be sure, and the story behind it is as likely apocryphal as miracle. But it’s a good story and lines up well with shooting…. By the way, I had a thought at the range the other day. One of my scope reticles has stadia lines that look a lot like a cross.” He sketched it out on a napkin. “That might make a good symbol for your order. Sort of like a Teutonic cross, crossed with some other crosses. For a double cross. I mean, well… you know what I mean. This.”

  “A double entendre with a double cross, so to speak,” added Erika.

  “We are not tricking anyone,” objected Thomas.

  “You’ll be tricking the Church into supporting an army of crazy monks with guns looking for wives. Invisible guns, or at least untraceable guns, to boot. Not exactly ordinary fare for them.”

  Even Thomas had to snort at the image. “Do you know where the expression loose women came from?”

  Not sure where that particular turn of the conversation came from but used to it from this group by now, Erika shook her head without taking offense.

  “Spinsters—unmarried or unmarriageable women—were often sent to nunneries in the Middle Ages. If they didn’t like the strict religious order there and escaped, they were women on the loose. Literally they were loose women. Martin Luther—not the King Junior, but the founder of the Lutheran Church and once a Catholic monk, married one of them. A monk who took a wife. Katharina, I think her name was.”

  “He was married?” Finnegan said, surprised.

  Thomas nodded. “It was a time of great turmoil in the Church. That was one of the many reasons for his breaking with Rome.

  “So there is a precedence for monks marrying, then?”

  Thomas smiled wryly. “Yes, in a way. But not precisely what I’d call a good one, at least from the perspective of the Catholic Church. I’ll try to play down that particular connection if it comes up.”

  “Then you’ll be starting a great many new traditions.”

  “And breaking even more existing ones, I fear. But special circumstances call for special actions.”

  Spiderlon Habits

  Let clothing be given to the brethren according to the circumstances of the place and the nature of the climate in which they live…

  The Holy Rule of Saint Benedict, Ch. LV (Clothing and Shoes)

  Bishop Cranberry was working at his “office” in the back party room at the Howling Puffin, tapping out yet another email about yet another potential candidate and resource on his computer hooked into a wall screen. He was still getting used to the setup with a corded keyboard, but ever since Bill had demonstrated capturing a password from a cordless board (and a few other less trivial things), he’d started being a believer in security.

  Erika walked in with a package under her arm and a smile on her face.

  “Getting used to the new digs, eh?”

  Thomas finished his sentence and hit /send/. “I am. And I hope it’s not too much of an inconvenience.”

  “Nah, it’s all good. Business is up with all the folks you are inviting in here at all hours. Da Boss says it’s up about 5% compared to the same time last year even though other businesses on the street are down about two percent on average. Stay as long as you’d like.” She tossed the package onto the table across from him and took a seat at the next table over, rearranging things on it more exactly after inspecting them to make sure they were clean and presentable. “It’s a little late, but Merry Christmas.”

  He looked quizzically at the package, and at her. “To what do I owe the honor?”

  “Open it.”

  He hefted it, trying to guess the contents, then tore the simple plain brown re-tasked shopping-bag wrapper after pulling loose the sisal twine from the bundle. Erika watched him closely, grinning. He pulled back a corner of the last layer of paper, revealing brown fabric. He glanced up at her and then finished unwrapping it. Inside was a neatly folded brown cloth. He pinched it between his fingers and rubbed it, gauging it. “Heavy. Feels different.”

  “Go on. Go on. Finish opening it.”

  He unfolded it to reveal what appeared to be a simple, long brown tunic.

  “You’re going to be monks,” Erika said. “You need a proper habit.”

  “We do?”

  “Sure you do. Maybe you hadn’t heard,
but I’ve got a degree in fashion design. No jobs there, of course, unless you have connections or a want to give head to get ahead, so I ended up here. But it’s fun designing and making things.”

  “What makes this a proper habit?” Cranberry asked as he inspected it more closely, noting that it wasn’t quite as simple as it at first appeared.

  “I talked it over with John and Mickey to figure out the details. It’s made of Spiderlon, heavily sewn with Kevlar. Mostly looks like a traditional monk’s robe, but it’s also sort of like a gi and a concealed-carry custom shirt. Mostly stab and slash proof, moderately bullet resistant. Multiple layers of reinforcement at important and critical points, a dozen concealed pockets, removable lower third-meter to improve airflow for hot weather or working hard, some quick access zippers and pull-aways, gussets for excellent freedom of movement, six plate pockets–”

  “Plates?”

  “Yeah, Mickey’s idea. Armor. If you think you may be going into harm’s way there are six extra pockets sized and located to drop bulletproof plates into. Sternum, abdomen, spine, sides, groin. If you really know you are going into the shit, you’d just wear a proper vest underneath, but a little extra for the plates didn’t add much, and they provide an extra two layers of Spiderlon even without the inserts but still give decent air-flow. They both tried out a couple of the prototypes and said it should work pretty well. The matching cowl is waterproof and insulated, and a removable collar-piece that some sort of rank-like insignia could be attached to. Or just wear the collar by itself as a squad leader.”

  “I hardly think we need ranks, really–”

  “You wear them now. Why change?” She pointed to his collar.

  “Ah, well, I…. Perhaps. I will think about it. One more thing to think about… But thank you very much. Really. I’m impressed. I hadn’t given the matter of habits any thought, but now that you offer it, like this, it looks fairly reasonable.”

  “Well, you can be forgiven. You’ve been rather busy with other things. You wear that out to a party, people will think it looks pretty ordinary. Things turn ugly, you can reveal you are more than meets the eye when necessary.”

  “I pray that is not necessary, of course.”

  “You plan on working with young men who have psych problems. You will see some ugly. Every surprise you can arrange to have on your side makes it more likely you’ll live to see another sunrise.”

  “But does it need to be bulletproof?”

  “No, but every little bit of bullet resistance reduces damage. Spiderlon is seriously tough—a real bear to work with, let me tell you—but if you take a typical 9mm to the nipple, for example, it’ll lose more than 80 percent of its energy before penetrating, and if you’ve got any pecs or luck, you’ll most likely live through it. An ought-six will still blow right through, of course, but you’re not likely to encounter those around here either.”

  “Anything else I should know?”

  “Easy to wash, not as fireproof as Nomex, but way better than cotton or nylon. Wrinkle-free. Tumble-dry. Cost is about eleven hundred for the basic material alone. More for the plates. And if we manufacture domestically, it’ll be about another four hundred in labor. About a third that overseas.”

  “Oh. That sounds steep.”

  “It’s all relative. I priced some more traditional woolens. They’d be more than three hundred. And I don’t think they’d take well to the training you’re outlining.”

  “Hmmm. No doubt true. Could you teach the candidates to make them?”

  “Maybe. Needs special shears to cut it and industrial sewing machines. Pretty loose fitted, a forgiving pattern in a lot of places…. We likely could. Make a part of their duties be to make one for another brother coming in. Have some sort of an award ceremony maybe?”

  “Not a bad idea. There should be ceremonies and other ways to mark important events. All sorts of possible upsides if we do it well. Earn a stripe when you confer one upon another brother, or the like. Worth thinking about. Thank you.”

  “Gold stars for the grade school boys. Gold stripes for the men. Funny how that works,” Erika said. Thomas gave her a look that made her laugh. “Hey, it’s true for chicks, too. Gold stars. Participation certificates, sometimes really fancy ones called diplomas, designer logos, all do the same for the fems.” She shrugged. “A lot of it is pretty stupid, but then so are most people.”

  “Recognition serves a purpose, you know.”

  “So who gets to wear them?” she asked. “Everyone, even the non-Catholics? Or…?”

  “Good question,” replied Cranberry. He tipped his chair back to stare at the ceiling a moment and think. “Traditionally–”

  “You’re arming monks, and you want to think tradition?” Erika interrupted.

  “–Traditionally,” Thomas continued, “monks all wear the same habit, but aspirants… no, that’s not the right word… postulants would not, or wear only a simpler version.”

  “But you won’t only be dealing with Catholics, right?”

  “Yes. So… It’ll take a while to sew a new habit in any case. I think, perhaps… Those who are baptized Catholics can wear them from the time they sign on the dotted line, but they will not wear a visible crucifix as part of it until they are a full monk or at least know some of the primary tasks. They get a simple chevron or stripe when they have achieved basic experience and spent a minimum amount of time there…. No, maybe the other way ’round.” He took a minute thinking and mumbling variations on a theme.

  “How about…? Tell me if this makes some sense to you, Erika, as a nonbeliever who doesn’t know Church traditions. A non-Catholic joins up. He signs the contract and takes the vow, but he hasn’t been baptized or yet served in any way, so as postulant, he gets a simple, ordinary brown tunic and trousers, or he can wear street clothes. After he’s been baptized, demonstrated basic knowledge of the faith, and been instructed in some of the duties a monk needs to know, then he receives a habit. When he has been there at least six months and performed—at least once—all of the basic tasks which he’s required to master, he is promoted to novice. A Catholic who is in the good graces of the Church would wear the habit from day one as a postulant, though is promotion to novice would be the same. It requires at least six months and experience.

  “After a novice has performed all the basic tasks—vigils, leading prayers, and so forth—and generally knows how to look and act like a monk to the casual observer, he gets a stripe. After leading some teaching, demonstrating mastery of basic minimum knowledge of the Church, faith, and rites, and serving there for two years, he is promoted to full monk and earns a second stripe. Like a corporal. Or something along those lines. If he’s there for at least three years, he gets another, like a sergeant. If he is a deacon, he gets a rocker like a staff sergeant. If he becomes a full priest-monk by being ordained, he gets another rocker. If he becomes a master instructor for any particular item, like shooting, performing rites, instructing novices, or whatever, he gets a star under his chevron. Maybe a second or third if he masters a number of things. But whatever they are, the insignia should be small and subdued. Visible but not flashy.”

  Bill joined them partway through Cranberry’s idea, walking in with a pale beer and taking a seat at the table with a nod or grunt to each of them.

  “What’s an abbot get?” Erika asked.

  “Headaches, mostly, I’d expect,” Bill responded with a grin. “The military equivalent would be a wreath around the star, I think. Or something like that.”

  “We don’t want to get too carried away with this though,” objected Thomas, suddenly a little embarrassed at the thought of such a rank structure being applied to himself.

  “Ego strokes,” nodded Erika. “Yeah, I get that. Sounds okay. Makes more people psychos when they don’t get a little trophy though. And the stupid people do trying to take first in meaningless competitions is scary.”

  “They are not meaningless if they mean something in the minds of the participants. No
, I mean… I think you know what I mean. And I know what you mean.”

  “Yeah, just bustin’ your chops, Your Most Reverend Excellency…. What’s up, Bill?”

  Bill set his beer down and checked out the robes a moment. “Holy cowl, batman! Better stop while you’re ahead. I hear those things are habit-forming!” They both gave him a dirty look. “Sorry. I just have a-clergy-ic reaction to such things…. Seriously, though. Got word from Mickey that he got a line on a place that might work.”

  “Really? Where?”

  “Didn’t say. Sounded to me like a warehouse in the woods, sorta, but he sounded pretty stoked by it.”

  Thomas looked dubious.

  “Said it was built as a big ol’ covered riding arena for some rich dude’s wife who fancied a ranch. Wanted to do some private training and indoor rodeos or some-such bull… riding. About a hundred feet by two-fifty, part-paved and part sand, some plumbing, insulated, has power and natural gas lines to it, a few separate buildings, lots of open space and easy to mod, comes with a bunch of unincorporated land, in a—and I’m quoting here—a broke-ass county with almost nonexistent government that tends to leave people alone. In a valley about ten miles to the nearest town, a small farming community, and about two hours from the city. Guy went bust in the last market panic. Traded hands a couple of times since then, each time with the price falling.”

  “Hmm. Worth considering at the least.”

  “He also said he spent some time surfing the auctions for used restaurant and industrial kitchen supplies. The upside of high rates of new business failures is cheap, slightly used equipment.”

  “Is he a cook, too?”

  “No, but he’s been talking to the cooks here, and a few of the army guys who used to be 92-Golfs to see what sort of things might be needed.”