The Apostates (56 page)

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Zhukov hung limply from the metal rig that imprisoned him. His thoughts swirled around in his head like a hurricane. His mental images were fluid and did not hold for more than a split-second. He felt like his identity had been stripped away. From somewhere and from some time, he did not know when, a familiar voice had contacted him. He had heard just one line: “Please father! Save me!” He could not place the voice in his head. Gone was any semblance of rational thinking; everything was like a Dali painting. When would it all end? Zhukov managed to remember that he had once been something important, but he couldn’t remember what for. He used to have whatever he desired delivered to him; a man of high standing. But then, it all changed when the Tar Creature, with the jagged teeth, came to him. It polluted his thoughts and turned his mind inside-out. The creature had taken great pleasure in torturing him. Was he in hell, or had this creature of the depths possessed him? Most importantly: where was his God and the Reverend? They seemed to have abandoned him.

The Reverend, he remembered well. One of
the first images in life he gazed upon was that of the Reverend Wilhelm making
little baby noises on his retinal H.U.D., parental bonding with a member of his
new flock. The Reverend was always the first thing newborn babies gazed upon in
the world. Obedience to the Church was the most important thing to the
authorities of New Megiddo; the respect for one’s parents was a close second.
The Reverend had always been there for Zhukov, but he could not feel his
presence now.

Suddenly, Zhukov heard a familiar sound: it was a noise that he had learned to associate with pain and fear. The cell door opened and shut with a rustic moan of hinges that had not been lubricated for some time. Footsteps were heard on the cold concrete floor. Something was slammed down on the table in the room; the resulting thud made Zhukov jump and whimper. The experience was made all the more terrifying with the blizzard of mental images running through his brain that refused to stabilize.

“Zhukov! Zhukov! Have you decided to give us access to the encrypted partition?” some wicked voice in the room asked. Zhukov was certain that it was the Tar Creature, but his voice seemed more human this time. He could sense movement in the room, but all he could see were streaks of color and melting faces. His hearing, on the other hand, was clear. He could hear the opening of a case, and fidgeting. Zhukov could also hear footsteps that drew clorser to him, and he could feel the touch of the Creature. It was not the searing burn that he remembered from last time, but a gentle touch. Then he felt it: the small prick of a needle. Almost instantaneously the storm of mental images began to coalesce into something sinister. The walls of his cell took shape, and the Tar-covered Creature was sculpted into being from the chaotic thoughts. Zhukov was filled with dread. He still couldn’t form coherent speech, all he could do was watch and listen helplessly. He felt his heart skipping beats, and he had difficulty breathing.

“Zzzzhukov, you filthy, little worm. You
still defy us. Give us what we want and we will make it stop!” the jagged-tooth
mouth snapped and hissed. Zhukov began to hack and wheeze. He had trouble
keeping his eyes focused.

“What is the matter, Zhukov? You can’t handle a little fun and games? Give us access and we shall make it stop!” the tar-dripping mouth spat black bile onto Zhukov’s cheek. Zhukov hyperventilated. His heart beated irregularly and then stopped. Zhukov’s breathing ceased and spasms set in.

“Get this man to the infirmary damned it! He’s having a reaction to the ‘Base!” the Tar Creature yelled to another. Two other tar creatures rushed into the room, to Zhukov. They unshackled him from his bindings. The last thing he remembered before he slipped into the darkness was being hoisted up by the tar creatures. He reasoned, with some of his last thoughts that the creatures had finally decided to drag him off to their infernal pit from which they were spawned.

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Inquisitor Rodrigo was angry, as angry as his limited spectrum of emotions would allow him to be. His tried and true methods of interrogation did not yield the information he needed, and the subject was potentially useless now. If he did not come up with the data that was encrypted within the partition of Zhukov’s neural implant, he ran the risk of allowing the B.A.G. to be sabotaged or worse. If the B.A.G. and the Second Coming did not occur, and the Regime was left intact, there would be anarchy. It all hinged on his cracking the encryption and stopping the Apostates. Rodrigo was waiting to hear Zhukov’s condition from the infirmary: if it was found that the former cardinal was brain dead, then, it would be a blessing. It would mean that the Inquisitor could remove his neural implant, directly accessing it to decrypt the data.

The Inquisitor paced back and forth in the dingy corridor outside the infirmary of the interrogation unit. This veritable dungeon was located in the sub-basement levels of the Ministry of State Security. Several levels were devoted to L.O.V.E. use and served as its headquarters. Inquisitor Rodrigo was nervous because he wanted to get started right away. He hated being kept waiting. After several minutes, a physician exited the infirmary. Rodrigo looked upon him with anticipation. The doctor looked hesitant to deliver whatever news he harbored. The Inquisitor’s reputation for brutality was well known.

“Well doctor, any news of Zhukov’s
condition?” Rodrigo asked with a sense of urgency. The doctor tried a few times
to muster the words, finally he worked up the courage,

“I’m sorry, Inquisitor. We tried all that
was possible to stimulate the brain. We looked for any hint of brain activity,
but I fear the high quantities of weaponized ‘Database’ that you administered
were too much for him. Please! We tried!” the doctor needlessly
pleaded for his life.

“Why, doctor! This is marvelous news!”
Inquisitor Rodrigo smiled with great satisfaction.

“It is?” the doctor asked, quite puzzled. He thought a prisoner being interrogated was more valuable alive. But, who was he to question the Inquisitor? He had survived the conversation with his life and his mind intact.

“When will I have access to what is left
of Zhukov?” the Inquisitor asked with great interest.

“Soon, we just have to hook him up to life
support and a ventilator,” the doctor answered.

“Excellent. Ping me when the preparations are made. Oh, also, doctor, retain your staff for overtime. Tonight, we perform brain surgery!” the Inquisitor exclaimed with glee.

“We are?” the doctor asked. Suddenly he
thought that the night would be a long and uncomfortable one, in the presence
of the Inquisitor. The Inquisitor did not answer and exited the interrogation
unit. The doctor shuffled reluctantly back to the infirmary O.R., not looking
forward to the night’s prospects.

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Graham Wynham had lost all feeling in his limbs from the way he was left hanging in the rig. He worried that if he ever got free they would have to amputate his limbs. He could barely remember his current circumstance and his mental pictures were beginning to disintegrate. He remembered the sensation as an adolescent when he was a habitual ‘Database’ user. This was the reason that he had decided to quit. The reason he started in the first place was curiosity, and a need to accumulate forbidden knowledge. He became privy to the true nature of things: free from the revisionist history that the Church and Regime had fabricated, which was why it was so hard to quit. Aside from the obvious underlying addictive agents used in ‘Database’ composition, the truly addictive property was the ever-expanding thirst for knowledge that would eventually leave the user brain dead. This time it was different. He thought he would have been prepared against it, but Graham had no defense against the drug’s potency.

Graham found it difficult to conjure
memories of his mission, and of the details of the insurgency he had created
and funded: the Apostates. He remembered that there was one key component of
his plan: the most important of all the machinations he had set in motion. The
one known as Ravine-Gulch, but who was also known by another name, needed to take the
three doses of the special strain of ‘Database’ that Graham had Wynham Industry
scientists manufactured just for his consumption. The data encrypted within the
‘Base’ was the truth: the sorry, miserable truth that Ravine would need to
finish the job.

The debilitating confusion returned to
cloud Graham’s mind. The skewed reality that polluted his psyche also infiltrated
what he believed was true. An overwhelming sadness descended upon him. He could
not help himself but weep for his wife and children, who had been burned alive
in front of him. That he remembered vividly. Graham’s torment had continued by
watching helplessly as his own grandfather, Warren Wynham, murdered Graham’s
father. The Regime had robbed him of everything he had held dearly in life.
There was nothing left inside him but rage and hatred. But, he was convinced
that he would have the last word, through the actions of the Apostates.

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Arch-Deacon von Manstein had received reports that poured in from all across the country. The adherents of the Faith had demanded more food and water, and more comfortable accommodations. In some cases there had been riots. He had also received unconfirmed reports from California that a full-blown mutiny had occurred. But, no one responded from that detail, so he could not corroborate these reports. The entire arrangement threatened to unravel before the B.A.G. could occur.

von Manstein wondered if the accursed
Apostates were behind all of the unrest. There was no other explanation. Zhukov
must have given the Apostates sensitive information that they were now
exploiting. von Manstein could not even imagine the horror that would be
unleashed if the people found out that the One True God was not actually the
force behind the scheduled Second Coming.

Something that troubled von Manstein even more than the Apostate situation was the notion of the rogue Prelate: Inoguchi. She had always harbored an irrational hatred for von Manstein, ever since her early days at the H.O.V.E.L. He never understood it. von Manstein had always felt he treated her exceptionally. He had been the one that had advocated for her to be raised to the status of a Prelate on permanent retainer by the Church. She got whatever she wanted from the Church because of his status and constant advocacy for her, and she had repaid him with a ceaseless, burning hatred. Sure, as he had raised her up from a no-name pup in a H.O.V.E.L., to a pious servant of Christ, he had on a regular basis “provided guidance” to her, but that was standard practice in the Church. What child of Christ would object to this practice? For some reason that he could not figure out, Inoguchi had always been different. Now, in the present she had been the Church’s most lethal Prelate, and she had gone rogue. Unlike the Apostates, whose capabilities had not yet been known, von Manstein knew exactly what Prelate Inoguchi was capable of. He wondered if instead of destroying the Apostates, she had joined their ranks.

All this worry and pressure on him made
von Manstein want to escape. He poured himself a tin cup’s worth of port. von
Manstein tilted the cup back and swallowed the liquid rapidly, then poured
another cup-full. He was riding in the back of his personal armored vehicle
that was traveling north to deal with a B.A.G. camp that had rioted. He hoped
to relegate the situation with a peaceful solution. He would certainly hate to
have to order the camp to be extinguished this close to the B.A.G. The A.P.C.
was en route to Cambridge, in the state that used to be called Massachusetts. A
series of riots that broke out at the B.A.G. camp had been food related.
Several Rangers had been injured and they were forced to open fire and kill two
of the Faithful. This was a true tragedy to von Manstein: to have so much
bloodshed before such a joyous occasion. He took
another sip of his port. von Manstein felt tipsy now; it took the edge off all
the disconcerting news he had received.

von Manstein asked his valet how much further they had to travel before they reached Cambridge, via his neural implant. The driver answered that they were still four hours away. von Manstein reasoned that he may have time still to do some ‘Database’. Then he willed himself to resist the urge. His dependence upon the drug had grown strong, and he needed to keep a level head to deal with the crisis at hand. He still had plenty of spirits that he could console himself with, and he did have a stock of banned, “naughty” books he could entertain himself with. von Manstein decided to save the ‘Database’ for his next bought with downtime. He selected a tangible book to read, from his small stock. It was “Lady Chatterley’s Lover”, by D. H. Lawrence. He loathed lugging around hard-copy books because they were so bulky. He would rather have the enhanced experience of the novel’s text washing over him like warm honey, via a ‘Database’ dose. Reading with one’s own eyes felt so archaic to von Manstein. But, his duty came first, and he would need all his faculties for the challenge that lay just up the road.

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Inquisitor Rodrigo watched with great
interest as the lead doctor moved the vegetable-like Zhukov into position, on
a rolling gurney that fed the man’s head into an antique looking, medical
device. It was a metal box with a space to accommodate a head, with a cushion and
padded metal clamps to keep heads in place. At the top of the metal box were
magnification lenses. It looked to Rodrigo to be a microscope of some sort,
which guided the doctor during the operation. He watched as barely visible
mechanical arms descended from the bottom of the metal box, to make contact
with Zhukov’s temple. The arms appeared to Rodrigo to be controlled by the
doctor via his neural implant. Rodrigo could see one of the arms make the
smallest of incisions, nearly microscopic. Another of these arms looked to be a
very thin, extremely flexible type. A hint of bright light was emitted from the
tip of the arm. It delicately descended into the incision; a note of singed
flesh could be detected in the air. After several moments of the arm performing
activity inside Zhukov’s head, it extracted itself. One last arm descended from
the box. It was a translucent tube and affixed to the end, was a slight,
near-microscopic hypodermic needle. The arm traveled down, deep into the
incision. Rodrigo heard a small suction sound originating from the box. The
small tube showed hints of a minute amount of organic material passing from
Zhukov’s head, through the tube, and up into the inner workings of the metal
box. Two orderlies stood idly by, in case of emergency. After a couple of
adjustments by the doctor, two arms appeared to be repairing fleshy structures
in Zhukov’s head. Lastly the arms cauterized the incision shut in Zhukov’s temple. Rodrigo did not know if this operation left any permanent damage to
Zhukov, but nor did he care, since Zhukov was now brain-dead and worthless to
him.