The Apostates (30 page)

As she read she drank ale from a cask that was brought over from the Iowa. She relished this time. Things had settled down and life was actually pleasant for the time being. The only patient she had currently was Aqua-Deluge and she had been stabilized and seemed to be making a full recovery. The biggest problem she had to worry about right now was Ravine’s downward spiral. He had been drinking more frequently since he had found out about Gale’s antics, and he did not take it well. Blaze had grown tired of Ravine being so needy, but he was her best friend in this ragtag band. She couldn’t just abandon him or stop caring. She just wished he wasn’t such a huge wuss all the time.

Blaze had turned her attention back to
reading, coming to a gripping part of the story. She scanned the words with her
eyes. Suddenly a window activated on her retinal H.U.D. The message was urgent, and
she opened it. It read Aqua-Deluge’s vital signs had flat-lined.

“What the fuck?” She jumped out of her bed throwing the book to the side. Blaze threw on some clothing and boots and ran out of her quarters toward the medical ward. The ship was big and it took her quite a while to close the distance. How could this be happening? Aqua was on the mend and everything had been perfect when she had left her this evening. Blaze rounded a corner and rushed to the medical ward where Aqua rested. She burst through the door and glanced over in Aqua’s direction. She was placed perfectly in the bed. The I.V. was in place, the sheets we immaculate, and she appeared to be sleeping. Blaze rushed over to Aqua and check her pulse: there was none. Blaze pulled down the sheets, and there was no sign of wounds.

“What is going on?” Blazed exclaimed. She
began to administer C.P.R., applying around thirty chest compressions, and
gave rescue breaths. There was no effect. She kept trying. Blaze sent
an emergency ping to the rest of the Apostates. She went back to trying C.P.R.
Blaze stopped and noticed a redness around Aqua’s neck, but there was no sign
of trauma or broken skin: just redness.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

Ravine was roused out of his booze and ‘Base’ induced stupor. He had a massive hangover and his mind was groggy. He was getting some sort of ping: an emergency message, but he couldn’t focus on it. Nothing made sense at the current moment, except the vivid memory of his vision of horror and nightmares. He remembered the pentagram and the words that were spoken: calling for a sacrifice to stop the ‘False Return’. Ravine tried to focus on the message: it was something about Aqua-Deluge. Ravine figured that Blaze-Scorch would look to her health. He felt ill: like he would lose his stomach contents. He figured he could pass out; just a few more winks. The next thing he knew he was hearing a pounding on the door.

“Bloody hell—what?” Ravine put a pillow over his head and tried to ignore it. The pounding continued. Finally, the door opened and Gale let herself in. She stood over Ravine, who was wrapped up in his sheets and fully dressed. Liqueur bottles were everywhere and she spied something she knew well: empty ‘Database’ applicators. Gale noticed that he started using again.

“Get your cowardly ass up, you piece of shit!” Gale-Whirlwind yelled near the top of her lungs. Ravine flinched: startled by the jolting racket. He threw the covers off himself and looked up to see Gale standing over him.

“What the hell is going on? Why’d you bust
in here? Whah—” Ravine’s pupils were dilated and he was sweating
profusely.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
You’re using again? Of all the places to do it—you’d do it here and
endanger the lives of your allies? Who do you think you are that your
problems are so much greater than ours?” Gale barked. Ravine resisted the urge to escalate the arguement, but, he had gone
through too much anguish to keep quiet now.

“What? Why do you even give a shit about
what I do? You wanted nothing to do with me, now you
care about my affairs?” Ravine was livid. The headache and confusion he felt
was adding to his fury.

“You have no right to even speak of this
matter. You and your habit destroyed my life, and then you killed yourself so
you wouldn’t have to deal with the consequences! That makes you a coward!” Gale
was wide-eyed with anger, and she shook when she spoke.

“I—you—you know I never meant for that to
happen. I thought I would make things better for you if I was gone. I know I
was nothing but a burden!” Ravine’s fury turned to a sadness.

“Why would you ever have thought that
abandoning the one you love would make things better? You could have been a
man, instead you took the coward’s way out.” Old wounds opened for her.

“I get it! I get it! So now I’m being
punished for it. You just keep laying on the fucking
punishment!” Ravine broke into a yelling fit again.

“What are you talking about? I needed a
break from you. I haven’t been punishing you.” Gale was on the defensive.

“Don’t give that. You fucked Hades to
punish me,” Ravine yelled in an accusatory tone.

“I—what? No, that was not about you,” Gale
stated calmly.

“How was it not? You fucked him to punish
me. And for what? The man—he doesn’t even like girls. What did you think would
come of it?” Ravine was confused and hurt, and lashing out.

“You just don’t get it. That’s exactly the
point. Nothing would come of it,” Gale stated coldly.

Ravine looked at her, confused. He was
silent for a minute, then his blood began to boil.

“You just didn’t care how it would impact
me,” Ravine growled.

“Enough. You’re the one who doesn’t care. Aqua is dead. You’d know that had you not been laid out from the god damned ‘Base’!” With that, Gale turned and slammed the hatch door shut. Ravine was speechless. He had received the message but did not bother to read it. But, his use of that strain of ‘Database’ was commanded by Graham Wynham himself. Ravine had to do it: to figure out what his purpose was. Ravine saw nothing but pain and heartache on this current path. How did Aqua die? Just as Blaze was sure her condition was stable so did he assure himself that she was safe. But, it was not so.

Ravine managed to pull himself to his feet. He threw on his signature ‘wife-beater’ and laced-up his boots. He stumbled his way to the hatch and exited his quarters. His way to the weather deck was long and cumbersome. He had forgotten how much the use of ‘Base’ took out of him. At las:t sunlight. Now he would need to think about getting off the Iowa and over to the Hermes. He stumbled his way to a dingy and used the winch to lower it to the waterline. He then descended a rope ladder and boarded the boat. He started rowing.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

Hades-Perdition had listened to
Blaze-Scorch’s account of what had happened when she came upon Aqua-Deluge.
What she told him indicated that it might have been an assassination. There
were no signs of trauma, but also no reason to believe it was a natural death.
The only logical conclusion he could make was that there was an assassin aboard
the fleet.

“I think that this could have been a murder. There is no evidence one way or another, but I can’t see any other alternative,” Hades had said. He stood in the medical ward of the Hermes. Aqua-Deluge’s body laid before him. To his side stood Blaze-Scorch, Angel-Seraphim and Pale-Silence.

“This is a most unfortunate turn of
events, indeed. But, we can’t really be for certain if this was an assassination.
We would need to stop the entire fleet and conduct a ship-by-ship sweep for any
assailant,” Pale-Silence pointed out the futility.

“That is exactly what I intend to carry
out. We will root out the murderer,” Hades was adamant about his intentions,
“Please, let’s do this. It’s the only way to be certain!”

“Very well, Mister Hades. I believe that
you are correct in this matter. I will do my best to coordinate a ship-by-ship
search.” Pale-Silence, the demon-esque man, turned away to carry out the task.

Hades-Perdition stood silently over Aqua-Deluge’s corpse. Just a few weeks ago Hades and Aqua had saved the life of a traitor together. She had been so vigorous and full of life. She had fought like the devil, both on patrol and at the battle with the Rangers. But, because everyone else was bogged down, she paid the price when she took on the Prelate the Church had sent after them. Ironically, the person that wounded, and probably killed Aqua, ended up being the salvation of the Apostates and the fleet: as the Prelate destroyed a large portion of the Ranger attacking force.

With that thought, it had come to him: the Prelate wasn’t dead. She got away. What if she was still with the fleet somewhere? But how could that be? Things did not add up for him. It was true the only way to know was a full sweep of the fleet. This, of course, would stall the fleet for at least a day or two. Hades just hoped that the Regime had not been tipped-off as to the fleet’s position. And, what of Graham? He had not contacted them in over two weeks. By now he was either dead or in custody, unless, he had given up on the Apostates and arranged passage for himself overseas? He was free to do so, but that would not change the mission for Hades. Graham had left them with more than enough resources to finish this game.

Even if he didn’t have Graham’s money, and the fleet, and the other Apostates, he would still strive on. Hades had a personal stake in this. The Regime and the Church could fall: that was perfectly fine with him. But, his tunnel vision was focused on one individual, in particular, and he would not rest until that individual was laying in a pool of blood. Aqua-Deluge’s demise just added to this single-minded determination to carry out justice and revenge. He would see it through.

“You okay Hades? You look—uh—how you
say? Flushed?” Angel-Seraphim asked him. She did the best she could with
English. Knowing three other current, plus one dead language, was a challenge
and she was struggling with a fifth.

“Thanks, Angel, I’m okay. Just tired of death,
I suppose. On top of it all I would like to see the end of this,” Hades
confessed to her, wiping some sweat from his brow. It was a humid day on the
sea today. He judged that they might be off the coast of Southern Mexico; maybe
off of the state of Oaxaca. They were reaching the tropics, and soon would pass
through the Panama Strait. But, first the business with the potential assassin
would need to be settled. It was time to begin the hunt.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

Angel-Seraphim and Blaze-Scorch walked together, taking inventory of the weather deck. They systematically swept the length of the S.S. Cape Jacob, the sealift ship, and were looking for any signs of the assassin. The S.S. Cape Jacob had been used as a modular cargo ship, in the wars of the Twentieth century. As such, there were many hiding places amid the shipping containers and massive cranes. The two women had been accompanied by several armed soldiers who assisted in the search. The sky over the ship was misty and overcast, but the humidity was high and they sweated just standing still.

Blaze-Scorch didn’t know much about the
woman called Angel-Seraphim, and since they had this search detail together she
thought she would strike up a conversation.

“Hey Angel, how did you end up joining the
Apostates?” Blaze-Scorch asked.

Angel considered the question and found it
tricky. The story was long and she didn’t exactly know where to start.
She was silent for a moment to give it some consideration.

“Same as you...Wynham, find me. Born again,” Angel lied. Graham had not recruited her.

“Well, I guess I was just wondering about
particulars, you know?” Blaze specified.

“Not much to tell. Born again, then meet
up with Pale-Silence,” Angel answered shortly.

“Aren’t you the talkative one?” Blaze asked
sarcastically. She turned away to check behind a storage container.

Angel wondered if she had been too harsh
on Blaze, but she really wasn’t in a conversational mood. Angel walked to the
opposite side of the deck. She looked over the bulwark at the numerous profiles
of ships in the distance. It became clear to her that she would be spending an
awful lot of time with these people, and on these ships, so she might as well
try to make friends. She walked back toward Blaze, who investigated the
inside of the cargo container. It was empty so Blaze secured the door.

“Hey Blaze. When you ask before...I lie.
Just didn’t know how to say,” Angel attempted to explain.

“It’s quite alright. I think I understand
what you mean.” Blaze smiled back at her.

“I from Nicaragua. Came north,” Angel
explained.

“Oh, I’ve never been south of the border,
this is the first time for me leaving New Megiddo. Did you like your home?”
Blaze inquired.

“Yes, much. Hard to explain. Air clean there—forest peaceful. New Megiddo very chaotic,” Angel drew a comparison between her home and New Megiddo, the chaos of the slums versus the now sparsely populated country. With the massive die-offs of previous centuries, the population of Central America had never again reached the levels of the Twenty-first century. The jungle had time to rejuvenate and reclaim the abandoned cities and towns, leaving a landscape of mysterious growth covered mounds. As a child Angel would explore these primordial ruins with her friends. It was a happy time in her life. In those days, the children had been innocent. They made up stories about the origins of the jungle mounds, pretended that they were hidden fairy kingdoms or the resting places of sleeping giant serpents. Sometimes they would pretend that they had found the domain of the Sihuanaba: a shape-shifting spirit from local folklore that would lure children to it by taking the form of the child’s mother. Then when the victim was within the spirit’s grasp it would reveal it’s true form: that of a horse-faced demon. The children would play like they had hunted the Sihuanaba down and dispatched it with stick-swords.

The villages that had emerged in the jungles and valleys after the collapse were small and picturesque. Angel had a happy childhood in one such village. Her village had been self-sustaining but also traded with surrounding villages. They cultivated bananas, coffee, and other cash crops. They also raised livestock. But, it hadn’t all been agrarian: the villagers had scavenged technology from the surrounding, overgrown cities. They had salvaged computers, various electronics, and even had a few running vehicles. With the sheer amount of scrap metal found in the old cities meant that the villagers did not have to rely on wood for construction. They would only cut trees down occasionally. It was as close to harmony with nature a people could reach without living a strictly tribal life.

Their village was situated on the banks of
Lake Nicaragua and was just off what used to be Route Twenty-five. It had been
peaceful, but then things had been changing around the region. Stories had been
circulated from traveling merchants that a great faction to the north had been
conquering and united villages, one after another. It had been a new black
market cartel that grew stronger. The cartel was named for the town from which
it had originated from: El Paradiso. The Cartel had steadily been moving south,
looking to expand markets, usurp resources and establish smuggling routes. It
had not taken long for the El Paradiso Cartel to move as far south as Angel’s
village.

“Sounds like that’s a beautiful place. What made you leave?” Blaze asked.

“It was when Cartel came. New Megiddo want
‘Database’—they bring it. We helped,” Angel explained with a forlorn look.

“I see. That must have changed things
quite a bit. I could see why you didn’t want to stay.” Blaze was empathetic.
The two of them stood by the bulwark looking toward far off land on the
horizon.

“No, Cartel not why I left. Things changed but still had my family. After that the Church came,” Angel said with a frown.

“Oh, The Church of New Megiddo was that
far south?” Blaze asked with some surprise.

“No. Not New Megiddo. Hard to explain. Do
you know of Crusades?” Angel tried as best she could to explain the concept.

“Yes, I’ve heard of the Crusades. What
about it?” Blaze confirmed, eager to hear more.

“Si, well, you know Templars or
Hospitaller? Knights, but monks?” Angel asked.

“Oh yeah, I’ve heard of the Templars,”
Blaze acknowledged, giving her a smile.

“They were like Templars. Bad people, but
I join them. Didn’t know then,” Angel stated. She had a troubled look on her
face, like reliving unpleasant memories in her head.

“Forgive me. I don’t want to make you talk
about difficult things.” Blaze put a hand on her shoulder.

“No, okay. Helps to talk,” Angel told the
story. Back in those times she was known as Consuela. This time she couldn’t help
but pour the details of the story out.

⍟ ⍟ ⍟

Consuela was awoken early by the crowing
of the family’s proud, black rooster. She could see that it was still dark
outside, and guessed that it must have been around six A.M. Consuela would need
to get up to help with the family chores on the homestead. There was breakfast
that needed cooking, goats would need to be milked, and eggs would have to be
collected. Later on that morning the family would work their modest field and
they would collect the bounty. They would gather the banana crop, avocados,
cantaloupe, and plantains. The total would have to be portioned. The majority
would be for the family's consumption, but a good portion would go to market in
the village square.

Ingredients were gathered for the family meal: gallo pinto. They had soaked red beans the previous night, and a pot of rice was steaming. Consuela mixed the two together and added egg and cheese. Grated coconut was sprinkled over the top, then, it was served with warm tortillas, coffee, and mango juice. The family converged on a table positioned on the patio of the cinderblock and plaster house. There was her little brother Javier, her father Juan Carlos, her mother Christina, and younger sister, Lupe. The family sat down and gave thanks to God for the meal, and dished up. They ate fairly quickly but still had time to jest and bond. Consuela’s father had told her that their family, The Grajales, had immigrated in centuries past from the island of Cuba. Her father was proud of the fact that they had descended from an ancient folk hero: a freedom fighter—she couldn’t remember the name.

“Niños. Tenemos que recoger la cosecha rápidamente. Entonces se puede llegar a la escuela a tiempo. (Children. We have to gather the harvest quickly. Then you can get to school on time.)” Her father, Juan Carlos instructed. The school was nothing fancy but it taught the children how to read and write, also they were instructed in principles of agriculture. The schoolhouse was an open-air structure with a thatched roof, and wooden benches.

Consuela had been much more gifted
intellectually than anything the village school could have taught her. Her parents
had realized this. When Consuela was younger her father would head out on
scavenging trips to surrounding ruins to find ancient books for her. She had a
particular interest in linguistics. With the amount of material that her father
had claimed for her she had over the years, taught herself multiple languages:
Hungarian, Latin, Italian, and she had dabbled a little in English.

“Estamos siempre en el campo. Puedo hacer
todo el dinero que necesitamos para el año. Voy a ir a trabajar para el Cártel.
(We are always in the field. I can make all the money we need for the year. I
will go to work for the Cartel.)” Javier had been talking about the Cartel
lately. He would say that he had a friend who left the village to work for theCartel and now carries wads of money with him. Consuela and his father had both
told him to stay away from the Cartel, but sometimes prohibition was the
greatest encouragement.

“Ya sabes lo que dije. Los carteles no se
preocupan por playita. Esa cosa va a que te maten. (You know what I said. Those
cartels don’t care about the people! That thing will get you killed,)” Juan
Carlos had warned his son. He could remember the days before the popularity of
‘Database’ skyrocketed in New Megiddo, and before the rise of the cartels. He
wanted his children to grow up in a similar environment, but there was no
turning back the clock.

“Jesús! Papá. ¿Usted quiere cavar suciedad por el resto de nuestras vidas? (Jesus! Dad. You want to dig dirt for the rest of our lives?)” Javier complained. What his father did not know was that Javier had quit going to school and he had been hanging out with children who had joined the cartel as errand boys. There were even boys from a neighboring village that were dealing to more affluent citizens from the cities with neural implants, looking for ‘Database’. He intended to find his own supply.

“Voy a escuchar nada más. Ir al campo.
Termine su cosecha. (I will hear no more. Go to the field. Finish your
harvest.)” Juan Carlos was short and to the point. He knocked back the
remainder of his coffee, slammed the cup on the table, and excused himself. He
headed toward the field to tend crops.

“¡Hay un insecto en el culo de papá!
(There’s a bug up dad’s ass!)” Javier exclaimed. He couldn’t understand what was wrong with making more
money. After all, he just wanted to help his family out.

“Cállate, Javier. Usted no va a insultar a su padre. (Shut up, Javier. You will not insult your father,)” his mother would hear no more. She dismissed Javier. Javier got up from the table and rushed out the door. Consuela and Lupe sat in silence at the table as their mother cleared plates, clearly annoyed. Consuela left the table and helped her mother clean up. Little Lupe pretended to be contributing to the clean up effort even though she was too short to reach the counter top.

That morning Javier had not gone to the field to tend the crops. He also did not go to school. The family would not see Javier that day. On the second day Juan Carlos, grabbed his old bolt action Mosin–Nagant, despite being an ancient firearm he had kept it in perfect condition. He checked the gun and gathered ammunition. Juan Carlos grabbed supplies and provisions of dried fruits and meats and packed his bedroll. He was preparing to venture out to search for Javier.

“Padre. Voy contigo. (Father, I’m coming with you,)” Consuela demanded. She had her own hiking pack ready, and she had her bolt-action Twenty-two caliber rifle at her side. Juan Carlos had taught his children how to shoot guns at a young age so that they could hunt if needed. He knew that Consuela would not take no for an answer so he did not protest. He gestured for her to follow, and the two set out on the trail to the neighboring villages.

It had been a humid day, and the trail harvested their sweat. The jungle called to them from all sides. They had checked in with a village to the east and no one had seen Javier. Later that day they had turned to the north to head for another settlement. A mid-afternoon storm composed itself and dumped its payload, forcing the pair to break out ponchos. They had been eating dried mango and various mixed nuts, as they moved along.

At last they came upon the medium-sized village of Masaya. It was named for a city that used to exist at the site, on the edge of Laguna de Masaya. They walked by patchwork houses and thatched-roof cottages, asking about Javier at several corner bazaars. Finally, a shopkeeper had tipped them off about an incident that had occurred the day before. It had to do with a kid fitting the description of Javier thieving ‘Database’ applicators, and that he had been caught. The shopkeeper told them he had been punished by the dealer, and that the kid was taken to the old cathedral: Iglesia de San Jerónimo. He was being treated there for a wound, but the shopkeeper had no details. Consuela and her father had feared the worst. Somehow, she knew that the kid had to be Javier.

Consuela and her father had rushed to Iglesia de San Jerónimo, anxious to uncover the fate of Javier. The morbid scenarios coursing through Consuela’s mind did not help her mood. She tried to put the thoughts out of her head. The cathedral was a large rectangular, white structure with chipped-off stucco and a coating of soot from a century of build-up. The cathedral had seen better days. Her father had reached the large, wood and bronze doors leading to the worship chamber. There was a smaller, human sized cut-out in the door. Juan Carlos swung it open and entered. Consuela and her father walked on smooth marble floors. The echoes of their footsteps bounced around the space.

They walked up the central isle toward the
altar in silence. As they approached they could make out a standard depiction
of a crucified Christ. To the left of the altar was a portrait of San Jerónimo:
the namesake of the cathedral. The portrait showed a troubled looking Saint
Jerome, leaning over a table in his study. He had the bible opened to the Book
of Revelations and was pointing to a skull that rest upon the table. Next to
the skull was a draining hourglass. Above Saint Jerome on the wall was the
Latin phrase “Cogita Mori” carved on a plaque. Consuela got an uneasy feeling
from viewing the old painting.