Dominion (7 page)

“Restart home network,” Ruppert said.

The screen did not change. It didn’t even flicker.

“Hello? House, answer me.”

Nothing.

It suddenly occurred to Ruppert just how he might look to Terror, should they choose to look in on Sully’s house, or to review the records later. It was possible that the cameras weren’t functioning, either, but he doubted it. More likely, they’d wiped the network’s memory but would want to keep an eye on anybody who came to visit their latest target. Sully had been involved in something, or why would they have searched his house so thoroughly? It was not the kind of disappearance you associated with simple social deviants.

Whatever crimes they suspected of Sully, Ruppert was now unavoidably a person of interest. It was possible they would dismiss him because he was a co-worker and might have been concerned about Sully, and if not, Ruppert would certainly make that defense when they came for him. Ruppert was a God-fearing Dominionist, a Party member and regular donor, a public man. He’d erected every possible bulwark against Terror, doing his best to protect himself and his wife from their power. He hoped it counted now. Still, he should have known better than to check up on a disappeared friend.

Ruppert left the bedroom and hurried down the front stairs.

“Stop there!” a man’s voice yelled from behind him. Ruppert felt a chill pass down the length of his spine. He raised both his hands, fingers wide.

“Turn this way.”

Ruppert obeyed. He tried to not exhale a sigh of relief when he saw that he was facing two cops in black uniforms. The Hartwell Police logo was stamped on their shoulders, an “H” with a hollow heart at the center of the crossbar, a smaller “W” tucked into the lower bracket of the “H.” Like most large cities on the West Coast, Los Angeles had contracted its police services out to Hartwell Civil Defense, Inc. These amounted to local cops. They were still dangerous, of course—he didn’t want to offend them by looking relieved, but he’d expected Terror men in black coats.

“This your house?” one of the cops asked. He was short and pudgy, with a bristly mustache. He glanced at a thin screen in his hand. “Says it’s not your house.”

“No. This is where my…a co-worker of mine lives. Used to live.”

“Looks like he moved out,” the other cop said.

“Yeah,” Ruppert said. “I thought he was at home sick. I guess I got some bad information.”

“I guess you did,” the pudgy cop said.

“Looks to me like he moved out,” Ruppert said, his words moving a bit too fast. “He might have moved to another city and just didn’t tell anyone. He’s a…well, you know these TV types, and anyway maybe we’re better off he’s gone, he could have been a deviant or a criminal for all we know, you never know, I mean you have to stay vigilant about these things.”

“You do have to stay vigilant,” the second cop agreed.

“After Columbus, you really can’t trust anybody except God and the president.”

The two cops nodded solemnly. Then the pudgy one broke into a smile. Ruppert knew what that meant, and it relaxed him further.

“Hey! You’re that reporter guy, right? My wife watches you every day, right after that talk show with the three angry fat ladies.”

“Thanks,” Ruppert said. “Tell your wife I said thanks for watching.”

“Wow, the reporter guy,” the pudgy cop continued. “So, hey, what’s the news today?”

“The war’s on in Egypt again. Can I help you with anything else?”

“We got a report of a suspicious character. You seen anybody like that?”

“It is a bad neighborhood,” Ruppert said. “I thought somebody I used to know lived in this house, but I guess he’s moved. Can’t blame him with a neighborhood like this.”

“Can’t blame him at all,” the second cop said.

“All right,” Ruppert said. “Thank you both so much for your admirable public service in these difficult times.”

“We’d better escort you to your vehicle, sir,” the second cop said. “It is a dangerous neighborhood.”

“I’d appreciate that very much.”

They both walked close behind Ruppert all the way to the curb. He guessed that if he’d stopped walking, they would have pushed him to his car.

The cops hovered over him as he sat down in the driver’s seat and the car door closed. He thanked them both again and then drove west, shivering hard and barely able to concentrate on the road. He checked his rearview mirror the whole way home, but nobody seemed to be following him.

EIGHT

After Sully disappeared, Ruppert took great pains to keep his life unremarkable. He joined another group at church, the Dune Buggers for Christ, which involved building machines from kits and driving them around a church-owned park in the desert (but only as a large and supervised group, of course). He liked it because it meant hours of time at the church workshop, working with his hands—it was more enjoyable and more honest than the Revelation study group, focusing on electrical and mechanical systems, on undeniable reality instead of ideology.

He did not miss a single Revelation class, though, and he spent more time at the church golf course and working out in the church gym. He expressed maximum groupiness at every turn, smiling and slapping hands with anyone he vaguely recognized.

He lay awake many nights waiting for someone to kick in his front door, or at least come to question him, but as far as he could tell, his mistaken visit to Sully’s house brought no consequences. It was always possible they were monitoring him closely. He would never know the difference until it was too late.

Sometimes he looked at the sleeping form of his wife and wondered how he had come to this place, sleeping next to this person who existed in a different universe from his own, a universe that could be reordered from top to bottom at the proper signal. He’d been fifteen when Columbus happened, and much of his life since then felt like a dazed sleepwalk. His private questions, too dangerous to be asked, targeted the larger truths about the world, about why his country seemed bent on ruling the planet, how they got away with claiming morality while they rained death on millions around the world, how they managed to claim his county was free and democratic when ten or fifteen or twenty million people were incarcerated, depending on what numbers you saw, and there was only one ideology represented on the ballot.

He puzzled over the mass behavior of humanity, but drifted like a zombie through his own life. He’d wanted to work as a print journalist, the kind who took long research trips and studied problems in the most troubled parts of the world. By the time he graduated college, those jobs had become not only scarce, but dangerous—writers kept disappearing without explanation, as had much of the faculty at Berkeley. Newsgathering in foreign countries was limited to military and intelligence personnel for national security reasons.

He’d wisely joined the Dominionist church, a denomination that had spread quickly through the nation after Columbus and become more or less a requirement for those who wanted to participate in public life. Contacts at the church had gotten him his first internship with GlobeNet, and he’d worked there ever since.

He met Madeline as a “suggested match” from the church’s Unmarried Young Adult ministry. Membership in that group was automatic for anyone who fit the description. The counselors would set you up on dates whether you asked them to or not. Madeline had been the fifth woman Ruppert met in this way, but they’d all been very similar, from well-heeled conservative families, all of them employed in some branch of the sort of social-service work the church deemed proper for females.

He dated Madeline for seven months, and as she pressed him harder and harder for marriage, he had trouble finding any cause to object. Madeline was undeniably beautiful, but she was also far more socially poised than Ruppert, navigating the new strangeness of life like a born native. She was about the same kind of person he would have to eventually marry anyway. The entire culture around him insisted he marry as soon as possible.

Madeline had finally gotten her way when she came to his home one night by herself, without one of the matronly chaperones that usually observed their courtship. This was shocking behavior on its own, but then Madeline had tied his hands to a chair and slowly removed her clothes until she stood naked in front of him. It was not illegal, so long as he wasn’t paying her money to do it, but it was all completely forbidden.

The extreme audacity of the act impressed him even more than the sight of her body. For an unmarried woman to be alone with a man was shameful, but to reveal herself in this way could have gotten her flogged, if she belonged one of the more severe women’s groups, or excommunicated from the church altogether. He admired her for it, and he agreed to marry her.

She had never done anything so bold again. Over drinks on the golf course, Ruppert occasionally heard similar stories from other men, and it eventually occurred to him that this was a technique women taught to each other, perhaps even in their church groups. The women never broke the law by performing actual sex acts, but in a culture where exposed wrists and ankles were points of contention for women, the sight of a woman without her clothes amounted to sensory overload for most men.

It was gradually dawning on Ruppert just how completely forces outside himself had shaped his life. There was no area in his life that was not carefully controlled by church and state.

He felt the strain especially hard at work, where he continued to read the official version of reality to a massive unseen audience. After the strong public-relations effort to boost support for an invasion of Egypt, stories about the radical cleric Muhammad al Taba dwindled away in favor of more palatable news—celebrity gossip, tales of captured spies and terrorist attacks narrowly averted, along with a heavy serving of petty local crime stories artificially inflated into national scandal.

After a couple of months, the temptation to return to his illegal computer with its ability to bypass federal filters became too strong to resist. He drove to the storage facility in Watts, though after the Sully episode he half-expected to find his unit emptied out. Instead, he found it just as he’d left it.

He closed the rattling garage door, then felt relief wash over him as he slipped on the goggles and gloves and booted up the little black cube of a computer. Then he was online, floating among thousands more holographic cubes and spheres than his home and office systems permitted him to see. Each icon was a door to a different realm of information.

He explored down a few of the African channels and connected to the Carthaginian, a news archive in Tunisia. You had to be careful with foreign news services, because any source could be loaded with propaganda. Ruppert tried to stay to the smaller, independent journalists. Generally, the slicker the production values, the less you could trust.

He searched the archive and drew up a chain of texts, images and videolinks focused on al Taba. He picked one of the texts—written words were the most informative, but the easiest to fake—and it swelled to the size of a poster board. The text scrolled automatically as he read.

The dateline for the story was two weeks old. Ruppert reordered his search results by date, then selected the most recent item. It was four days old.

Ruppert sat back and thought it over. According to the news he’d read to the greater Southern California region, al-Taba was a “terrorist general” commanding an army of (at latest estimate) nearly a million men, with divisions all across Africa. Capturing al Taba had been the entire objective of the invasion of Egypt, according to Ruppert. If it had happened four days ago, it should be all over the nets, even cause for a special parade.

The Atlantic forces had toppled the radical Egyptian regime along the way, naturally, as penalty for harboring al Taba. Ruppert had mentioned this at the tag end of one of his reports about the invasion of Egypt, as if it were a minor and entirely predictable detail, and then it was on to the entertainment news.

The rest of the news had centered on al Taba, the pressing and urgent need to grab al Taba before he seized control of all North Africa. The fact that Hartwell Services had actually seized control of all Egypt did not rate an explicit mention. It was much easier to focus a television audience on capturing a single archvillain, using any means necessary, than to convince them that an invasion of an entire country was necessary. Coverage of the full-scale war could be omitted if you focused the audience on the good-and-evil struggle to capture the one supremely evil individual. At GlobeNet, they sometimes referred to these individuals as the “Devil of the Day.”