The Six Messiahs

chapter 12

THE FIRST CHECKPOINT WAS FIVE MILES OUT FROM THE center of the town. Late afternoon by the time the Players' wagons reached it, desert all around, flat and desolate, sun hammering down like a blacksmith. Eileen was grateful for the extra canteens Jacob had filled before they left Skull Canyon; Kanazuchi went through two himself, silent as before, his movements spare and economical. His wound stayed clean, no festering; the strange man seemed to be using the energy he conserved to consciously will himself to heal and damned if it wasn't working; his pallor gone, breathing steady and strong.

At the moment, Eileen felt more concern for Jacob, driving their wagon all day in the blinding heat; she spelled him at the reins for a stretch until the swelter drove her back under the cover of the canvas. She knew the poor man had to be exhausted just from the tossing and jolting the rough road gave their buckboard—his face scarlet, sweat soaking his shirt—but he never complained, cheerful and buoyant as ever, making it impossible for her to give in to her rising sense of apprehension.

Damn Bendigo anyway for marching them out across a desert in the heat of the day; their first performance wasn't until tomorrow night, they shouldn't have attempted this crossing until the sun went down; the road was well marked and the wagons all equipped with lanterns. But heaven forbid they should show up late for a free meal; Rymer might lose a nickel.

Winding down from the foothills of the Juniper Mountains and into the sands of the eastern Mojave, their caravan had just passed through an eerie formation of spiraling vertical pillars, etched out of limestone and silt, rising from the flats like a forest of rock. The wagons rounded a corner in the densest part of the stand and came to a crude gate fashioned from large cut logs, the first sign they'd seen of human hands in hours. A small hut, built from the same wood, apparently empty, stood to the side.

A sharp whistle blew.

Out of nowhere, a dozen heavily armed men—people; Eileen realized half of them were women—appeared on every side and above them on top of the pillars, rifles cocked and trained on the wagons. They wore light cotton pants, heavy steel-tipped boots, and identical collarless white tunics; each one equipped with a belt of bullets slung around their waists.

Something else odd about them: They were all smiling.

A tall woman, the only one without a rifle—she wore twin-holstered sidearms and a whistle around her neck—stepped forward to the gate and spoke to Rymer in the lead wagon.

"Welcome to The New City, friend," said the woman cheerfully in a loud, clear voice. "What is your business with us today, please?"

"We are the Penultimate Players," said Bendigo, with a grand sweep of his Tyrolean hat. "Theatrical vagabonds. Come to entertain, amuse, and, one hopes, humbly, to please."

The woman smiled at him. "One moment, please."

She opened and consulted a list in a leather-bound folder she carried and apparently found a corresponding entry.

"And your name, sir?"

"I am Bendigo Rymer, director of our happy band; entirely at your service, madam."

"How many in your party, Mr. Rymer?"

"We are seventeen, uh, nineteen of us, in all."

"Thank you, sir; you are expected," she said, closing the book. "We will have a look in your wagons, and you can go right on in."

"By all means," said Rymer. "We have nothing to hide."

The woman gave a signal, and the guards on the ground moved swiftly forward, throwing open the wagon flaps, while the ones stationed on the pillars held their rifles pointed and ready.

"Good afternoon," said Jacob to the handsome young black guard who took hold of the bridle on his mules.

"Good afternoon, sir," said the man, well-spoken, smiling broadly.

"You have a tremendous amount of heat out here in your desert this afternoon," said Jacob, mopping his brow.

"Yes, sir," said the guard, still smiling, never taking his eyes off' him.

The canvas yanked away from the rear of their buckboard: Kanazuchi had pulled himself into a sitting position, swords hidden under the skirt of his coat. Startled, Eileen turned to look at the face of the guard; a slight young woman, no more than twenty, pony-tailed and freckle-faced, but she moved with the sharp assurance of a well-trained soldier. Her eyes darted methodically around the empty wagon—what is she looking for? Eileen wondered—and settled on Kanazuchi for a moment. He nodded and smiled, betraying no uneasiness. The girl smiled in return, a gaptoothed grin that suggested no undue curiosity.

"Hello," said Eileen.

"Have a glorious day," said the girl, and dropped the canvas cover.

The guards on the ground stepped back and signaled to the woman at the gate; she leaned on a stone counterweight and the log barrier rose up smoothly, clearing their path.

"Please proceed, Mr. Rymer," she said to Rymer. "Do not attempt to leave the road. When you reach The New City, someone will meet you with further instructions."

"We are most grateful, madam," said Rymer.

With sweat covering his body, Bendigo congratulated himself on the unflappable coolness of his performance—authority figures outside the theater paralyzed him, particularly when heavily armed—but the woman hadn't noticed even the slightest uneasiness. What an actor he was! He urged his mules through the gate. The other wagons quickly followed.

"Have a glorious day!" said the woman at the gate, smiling and waving at each passing wagon.

"Thank you," said Jacob, returning her wave. "You, too!"

Eileen peeked out of the back as the log gate closed behind them; the guards on the pillars watched them roll away, rifles still in hand, while the others disappeared back to their hiding places.

"What do you make of that?" asked Eileen.

"I detect the fine hand of religious fanaticism," said Jacob from the front seat.

As he joined her to look through the flap, Eileen noticed a profound change in Kanazuchi; he looked revitalized by their encounter at the gate—focused, senses keenly attuned, his movements regaining their catlike precision and alertness. Although she felt no threat to herself, for the first time she felt a reason to fear him: He seemed more animal than man.

"Strange, weren't they?" she asked.

"Serious people," said Kanazuchi.

"Seriously happy."

"No," he said, shaking his head slightly. "Not happy."

From the checkpoint forward, the road improved dramatically; hard packed dirt graded and leveled on top of the sand, nearly eliminating the rocking of the wagons. Across the dry flatlands to the rear, a distant rhythmic pounding faintly reached their ears. Eileen shielded her eyes and peered out in that direction but could see nothing on the heat-distorted horizon.

"What is that?"

"They are putting up fences," said Kanazuchi. "Barbed wire."

"Who is?"

"The people in white."

"You can see that from here?"

He didn't respond; Kanazuchi discarded Jacob's round hat, removed the long black coat, and began to strip off the motley patchwork beard.

They were getting close.

Time to reassume his own identity.

By nine o'clock that morning, the Chicago Western Union office had received a flurry of responses to their late-night barrage of telegrams. Attaching the name Arthur Conan Doyle to the inquiries greatly increased the alacrity and density of detail in the returns, particularly from newspaper editors, most of whom confessed they couldn't help with the requested information but were unable to resist firing off a question or two about the uncertain fictional fate of you-know-who.

As they had suspected, the most promising results came back in a lengthy reply from the Arizona Republican in Phoenix, the Arizona Territory's first newspaper.

The editor wrote that local attention was growing in the direction of a recently found religious settlement a hundred miles to the northwest. Called itself The New City, built on private property; its founders had bought over fifty square miles of surrounding undeveloped land. Clearly they had a lot of money to throw around; speculation about The New City's wealth centered on the possible striking of some fabulous silver lode.

Every one of the paper's repeated attempts to research a story on the place had been politely but firmly rebuffed; folks wanted to hang on to their privacy out there for some reason. That attitude didn't raise a sea of red flags in this sparsely populated corner of the world; a lot of people came west in search of that same commodity.

One of the reporters the Republican sent out that way had found the The New City so much to his liking he decided to stay on. They hadn't heard a single word from the man after a telegram announced his resignation—in which he described the place only as a "kind of Utopia"—but that didn't surprise folks at the paper much: He was a bachelor fellow from Indiana, an odd duck who'd never quite fit in.

Neither were Utopian social experiments that great a rarity in the development of the American character, noted Doyle. Over a hundred had sprung up all over the country since the Civil War, the most noteworthy being the Oneida Community of Perfectionists in upstate New York; known for the fine silverware they produced but even more for their bold rejection of marital monogamy. At the opposite end of the sexual spectrum were Mother Ann Lee's Shakers of the Millennial Church, strict celibate abstainers who had set up shop in more than thirty different locations from Massachusetts to Ohio. How they planned to perpetuate themselves without benefit of biological reproduction didn't seem to worry them since Mother Lee had prophesied the end of civilization within their lifetimes; chastity ensured them that theirs would be the only souls allowed through the Gates of Heaven. Why the Shakers then devoted themselves to building such sturdy, built-to-last crafts and furniture when there wouldn't be anyone left to appreciate them was a question they never got around to asking.

Arizona's attitude toward The New City could best be described as "live and let live," wrote the editor. A number of Mormon settlements had established themselves in that same northwest quarter of the territory over the last few years, and they kept to themselves as their creed dictated without raising any eyebrows; why, the entire state of Utah had sprung up around the Mormons and the fortunes they'd made in their ranching and mining enterprises. Far be it from the politicians of Arizona to turn their back on such rich potential revenue out of small-minded religious prejudice.

So: Economically self-sustaining and socially self-governing, what business was it of anybody's if these people of The New City wanted to live according to their own beliefs, whatever they might be? (No one seemed to know a thing about that.) And if any financial benefits trickled down to the surrounding area in which they chose to establish their community, as they so obviously had to the non-Mormons of Utah, so much the better. Absolutely consistent with the American guarantee of religious freedom, that was the Republican's editorial position on the subject.

Hustling to a local bookstore and returning with a detailed map of the Arizona Territory, Innes charted The New City's location as described by the editor directly in the heart of the eastern Mojave Desert.

So far so good. The issue of what they should do in response was definitively settled by one last nugget from the Republican. Rumor had it the citizens of The New City were building a tabernacle to rival the one the Mormons had recently completed in Salt Lake City. No one at the paper had actually laid eyes on the place, but it was going up fast and was supposedly being fashioned from black stones drawn from quarries in northern Mexico.

The black church.

After leaving the telegraph office, Doyle returned to the Palmer House and delivered a promissory note of $2,500 to Major Rolando Pepperman, guaranteeing Doyle's participation in the remainder of his tour after a two-week delay. Needed, he told the Major, for the resolution of unspecified personal difficulties. Confined to his bed, hung over and glum, Pepperman accepted Doyle's offer without question, fully expecting never to see the man again, and with a resigned feeling of relief. The Major had already made up his mind; if they would have him, he was going back to the circus.

Because no connection to The New City had been established, the editor of the Republican did not mention in his telegram the story dominating their local headlines, that of the decapitating fugitive Chinaman, Chop-Chop—he'd coined the nickname personally; one of his finer editorial hours.

If he had, Doyle, Jack, Innes, Presto, Stern, and Walks Alone would have made their way to the Chicago train station and purchased their one-way tickets to Phoenix with even greater urgency.

The night before, while visiting the dream again, Walks Alone had been able to distinguish one of the faces of the other three figures that had joined them underground:

An Asian man, who held in his hands a flaming sword.

By the time Dante Scruggs knitted his savaged wits back into something close to working order, he realized he was riding a train. A private compartment, daylight outside the windows, moving through open countryside; farms, fields of wheat. Three other men sitting with him, dressed in suits, vaguely recognizable: He'd seen them all in Frederick's offices the night before.

The men who'd hurt him.

They watched Dante closely as he came around, with interest but without emotion or friendliness. The three looked different from one another but seemed the same in behavior, gesture, each of them pulled taut as a bowstring, containing a violence that threatened to spill over at the slightest provocation. Dante understood what that feeling was all about.

"What time is it?" asked Dante.

The three men stared at him; finally one of them pointed to the watch pocket of his vest.

Looking down at himself, Dante realized he was similarly dressed, like a traveling businessman. Dante put a hand into his own vest pocket, pulled out a watch, and opened it.

Two-fifteen.

He replaced the watch. Felt a dull throbbing on the inside of his left arm, then, remembering the brand they'd inflicted on him there, decided not to touch the area or draw their attention to it. Who knew what else they might do to him?

Why couldn't he remember anything after the searing pain of those moments? Their hands holding him down; Frederick's lace looming over his, speaking softly, hypnotically. He had obviously blacked out but more than twelve hours had passed since then. Had they given him some kind of drug that erased everything else from his mind?

He wanted to ask a hundred questions, but fear kept him quiet. Something else rose up unexpectedly: a feeling of kinship with these men. Dante had seen the marks on their arms; obviously they'd all experienced what he'd gone through last night—the suffering and terror of that nightmarish initiation. It united them in a way that meant more than friendship; he didn't need friends, never had.

Fellowship, that was something else again.

What had Frederick said to him?

An army. These were soldiers, as he had been once and was now again.

Fighting men. The idea grew on him.

What had he hated about the regular army, anyway? The small talk, petty complaints, and laziness of the average volunteer, their stupidity and lack of discipline. Any behavior that distracted from what he saw as their primary business: killing.

That didn't seem to be a problem with these men. Dante felt himself relax. Maybe Frederick was right. Maybe he did fit right in.

The door opened; the two men nearest to it got up and went outside, as Frederick entered and took a seat directly across from Dante. At the sight of Frederick's handsome smiling face, Dante tensed up again, his heart raced, his palms went moist.

"How are you feeling?" asked Frederick warmly.

"Okay," said Dante. "Real good."

"Any discomfort?"

Dante shook his head.

"Any ... second thoughts?"

"No, sir."

Frederick stared at him until Dante had to look away. Frederick put a friendly hand on his knee, rubbed it intimately. Dante blushed, looked up at him, and grinned.

"You'll do just fine," said Frederick. "With your background, the training shouldn't prove difficult."

"Training?"

"Shouldn't take long, either. You've been a leader of men before. You may even be officer material."

"Whatever you say."

Frederick leaned back and studied him. "Hungry, Mr.Scruggs?"

"Yes, sir," said Dante, realizing. "Real hungry."

Frederick gestured; the man remaining in the compartment pulled down a wicker basket from the luggage rack, set it on the seat beside Dante, and snapped it open, revealing a mouthwatering selection of sandwiches, fruit, and beverages.

"We are careful about what we eat," said Frederick. "Good food. Nutritious and well balanced. No liquor is allowed."

"I don't drink, anyway," said Dante.

"That's fine. An army travels on its stomach, isn't that right, Mr. Scruggs? Help yourself."

Dante could hardly recall ever feeling so ravenous; he devoured three sandwiches and two bottles of ginger ale without saying a word, wiping his mouth across the sleeve of his new jacket, shameless as a starving dog. Frederick leaned back in his seat, folded his hands neatly, and watched Dante eat, a sly smile playing across his strong features.

As Dante finished eating and let out a resounding belch, at a signal from Frederick the third man replaced the basket in the rack and left the compartment. Frederick delicately held out a napkin; Dante stared at it for a moment before realizing what this was, then took it and cleaned off his dripping mouth and chin.

"Are you curious about the group you've become part of, Mr. Scruggs?" asked Frederick, with that teasing smile again.

"I figure my job is," said Dante, pausing to bring up another burp, "do what I'm told and don't ask questions."

"Good. For instance, you do not need to know what we call ourselves, because it is not a question you will ever be required to answer."

Dante nodded.

"You will never be told anything unless we determine that you need to know it. Do you know where we are going now?''

"West somewhere," said Dante with a shrug, observing the position of the sun out the window.

"Quite perceptive; but beyond that, do you care where you are going?"

"No, sir."

"We are great believers in discipline, Mr. Scruggs. Discipline of behavior; discipline of the self. It is essential to our work that people should not take any notice of us. Imagine, for example, that a job you were involved with required you to dine in a fancy restaurant and it was important for you to blend seamlessly into that crowd."

"Okay."

Frederick leaned forward and whispered, "Do you think that would be possible, Mr. Scruggs, if you were to exhibit the table manners of a pig rolling around in its own shit?"

Dante felt the blood drain from his face; Frederick still smiled at him.

"No, sir."

"This is why we learn to train our minds; and why we believe every personal failing must be so severely punished. this is how we learn."

Sweat trickled down the back of Dante's neck. Frederick reached over and patted Dante's leg.

"Don't look so worried, Mr. Scruggs. I hadn't made you aware of our standards and you were so very hungry. But having had this conversation, I won't expect to see such a disgusting display from you ever again. Will I?"

"No, sir."

Frederick gave Dante's thigh a reassuring squeeze and leaned back.

"We recognize that each of our men is uniquely qualified In do our work, and if he pleases us, he should be uniquely rewarded. You have developed your own particular interests in life, Mr. Scruggs, apart from ours; we feel that if you have fulfilled our needs to a high level of satisfaction, we should in turn provide you with an opportunity to satisfy yours."

"Okay." What did he mean?

"Do not be deceived; this generosity springs from a selfish foundation: It has been our experience that giving a man what he wants when he pleases us will only provoke him to work that much harder in the future. It is an investment. Do you follow me?"

"I'm not sure."

"An example would be in order. Let's imagine that we have given you a difficult assignment to complete and you have performed it flawlessly. What might you expect from us in return?"

Dante shook his head.

Frederick, all-knowing, snapped his fingers; one of the men opened the door from the corridor outside and in walked a plump, attractive young woman, a strawberry blonde, provocatively dressed, carrying a small valise.

"Yes?" said Frederick to the woman.

"Pardon me, gentlemen, I don't mean to intrude," said the woman, obviously nervous.

"How can we help you, miss?" asked Frederick politely.

"I found this case, you see, under my seat in the next car over?" she said, in a grating midwestern drawl. "And the fella outside—your friend, I guess, he was sitting across from me— he said he thought it belonged to one of you gents in here. So he asked if I wouldn't mind bringing it back myself."

"How very kind of you," said Frederick. "Did our friend offer you anything for its safe return?"

"Sort of," said the woman, blushing.

"How do you mean?"

"He said one of you fellas would give me ten dollars if I did it."

"He would be right," said Frederick, taking out his billfold. "Forgive my manners, won't you join us for a moment, miss? It must be more comfortable in here and we really are most grateful."

"All right," she said, still standing, awkwardly holding the valise.

The man in the hall closed the door behind her, leaving her alone with Dante and Frederick.

"Here then, Mr. Johnson," said Frederick to Dante, "why don't you take your case back from the young lady?"

Dante glanced at Frederick in confusion.

"Oh, is it yours?" said the woman, holding it out to him.

"Thank you," said Dante. He accepted the case from her, holding it stiffly in his lap.

Frederick patted the seat beside him and the young woman sat down, as he slipped a ten-dollar bill from his billfold.

"As promised," said Frederick.

"Thank you very much, sir," said the woman, taking the money, eyes downcast, embarrassed.

"No, thank you, my dear," said Frederick. "Mr. Johnson, perhaps you should examine your case and make sure everything is in order."

Dante nodded, set the case flat across his knees, and carefully unfastened the twin clasps.

"If you don't mind my asking, are you traveling alone, miss?" asked Frederick. "What is your name, by the way?"

"Rowena. Rowena Jenkis. No, I don't mind. And yes, I am," she said. "Traveling alone, that is."

"I see," said Frederick, smiling warmly. "You're a very pretty girl, if you don't mind my remarking."

"No, I don't mind at all."

"Are you a prostitute, by any chance, Rowena?"

The girl looked stricken; her hands tensed into fists and she (•lanced nervously at the door. Frederick studied her reaction carefully.

"Please, I don't mean any offense by the question," said Frederick pleasantly. "And I certainly hold no ill feeling towards you if you are. We're all very open-minded here. It's only an observation. To satisfy my curiosity."

She looked rapidly back and forth between them. "I guess I done some of that, yeah," she said, her hands relaxing, stroking the silky mohair seat.

Dante opened the case; inside, laid out meticulously on a bed of black velvet were arrayed two rows of new, gleaming, stainless steel surgical instruments; scalpers, spreaders, saws.

"Is everything in order, Mr. Johnson?" asked Frederick.

"Oh yes."

"Nothing missing?"

"No," said Dante. "Everything's fine."

"Good."

Dante slowly fastened the case and looked up at the girl.

She smiled at him; the one with the accent seemed a bit sophisticated and intimidating for her taste, but she liked this boyish-looking blond. She thought she could have some fun with this one, bringing that little boy out in him. He had a real friendly face—she was severely nearsighted but hated wearing glasses—but there was something funny about his left eye: What was it?

"May I offer you a drink, Rowena?" asked Frederick, bringing down the picnic basket. "Perhaps something to eat. We've brought along some lovely sandwiches."

"That'd be just wonderful, thanks," said Rowena, snuggling back into her first-class seat.

Rowena hadn't been looking forward to moving to Kansas City one little bit; she knew the house she was going to work in there was nowhere near as nice as the one she'd just left in Chicago, and she hated having to get to know a whole bunch of new girls all over again.

But judging by the size of the bankroll in this fancy gent's billfold, she had a feeling this trip might turn out all right after all.

By midafternoon, Buckskin Frank had made up the actors' head start. For all his years riding through the region, he'd never been out this far before; not even Apaches had much use for the place. The heat was brutal once you hit the sand, but he knew how to pace a horse through it; he'd done it a hundred times in other wastelands, and he stopped every hour to water both himself and the horse; he'd always taken good care of his animals. They seemed more deserving of kindness than most people he'd known and returned it more faithfully.

The road was easy to follow and their tracks were fresh. He stopped on top of the last bluff before the road dipped down for good into the flats; another fork intersected with the road a quarter mile below, the only other one he'd come across since Skull Canyon, snaking off to the southwest.

There: Dust kicking up on the main road ahead; Frank took out his field glasses.

His first sight of the actors, five wagons rolling out of a cluster of tall rock. The last wagon had its flap open but he couldn't see any—What was that?

He swung the glasses back from the theatrical troupe and focused in: Looked like a gate across the road, this side of the wagons, about a mile off. Small cabin; telegraph lines running off, following the road ahead. Figures moving, but he was unable to pick out any details from this distance through the heat waves.

His eye caught another cloud rising from that secondary road to his left; he moved the glasses over.

Conestoga wagons, a longer string, maybe ten of them, closer than the other group, heading toward the intersection beneath his position. Drivers wearing white shirts, a second white shirt riding shotgun.

What was in the wagons?

Crates, long crates, piled high in every one.

He knew that shape.

But it made no sense; these were clearly civilian drivers. Couldn't be, could it? To be sure of it, he'd need a closer look.

Not that this was his business, he reminded himself, but if anything was going to complicate taking down the Chinaman, he had to make it his business.

Frank figured ten minutes before the wagons reached the intersection. He kicked into a gallop to the bottom of the bluff, then left the road and picked his way through the sand to the first outcroppings of rock formation. Strange shapes rising, a maze of twisted pink and white columns like a stand of petrified trees. He tied off his horse out of sight, took his rifle, and went looking for high ground.

The wagons were still a few minutes away, approaching along the main road from the left. As he advanced, he heard movement echoing ahead out of the rocks, then a rhythmic beating sound, followed by voices.

Singing?

Frank crept onto a large boulder and edged over to its rim, giving him a view of a small natural clearing set in the middle ol the formation.

A dozen of those same white-shirted people he'd spotted on the wagons, sitting in a circle in the clearing, clapping their hands and singing "Rock My Soul in the Bosom of Abraham."

Young faces. Smiling to beat the band. Two of them black, one Mexican, at least one Indian. Half of them women. Bandoliers around their waists, sidearms. Rifles stacked against the rocks; repeaters, serious guns.

What the hell sort of Sunday school outing was this supposed to be?

Frank jerked back away from the edge when he heard a footstep scuff the dirt behind him. He turned slowly; another one of the white shirts, a blond-headed kid, barely out of short pants, patrolling the narrow passage between the rocks below, a rifle in his hands.

A pebble rolled off the boulder and hit the ground near the boy's feet; the boy stopped and kneeled down.

Frank froze; if the kid glances up, he'll be looking right at the soles of my boots. And two seconds later he'll be wearing a footprint on his face.

The boy didn't move.

Frank held his breath. What the hell's he doing? If I was his age, I'd be sneaking a smoke, trying to talk some girl out of her petticoat. The boy crossed himself—he'd been praying—stood up, smiled to himself, and moved along, away from where Frank had tied his horse.

Frank exhaled slowly, then counted to a hundred. Singing and clapping continued from the clearing, the same song, over and over again. No one in a white shirt came looking for him. He slipped off the rock and moved silently back to his horse.

This was too weird.

A strong instinct came up inside him: If you want to head to Mexico, Frankie boy, now's the time.

The wagons had progressed along the main road, level with his position now. Frank moved to the edge of the rocks, less than fifty yards away, rested his arms in a crevice, and trained his glasses on the caravan.

On the long crates in the back of the wagons.

He examined each load carefully as they passed by; yes, each bore the same stenciled stamp on the boxes that he thought he'd find: u.s. army.

Those were Winchester rifles in those crates. Standard military issue.

Hundreds of them.

THE NEW CITY

"Praise God. Hallelujah; isn't it a glorious day?"

"Thank you, Brother Cornelius; it is indeed a glorious day," said the Reverend as he stepped out of his House for the first time that day—it was already hours past noon—and onto the planked sidewalk on Main Street. He squinted against the bright sunlight; hot, dry air blasting his lungs; worrying again where he would find the energy to fulfill this day's obligations.

If only they knew what I wanted from them, thought Reverend Day, wearily looking out at the crowded street. How many would stay? How many would turn and run?

"Tell me, Brother Cornelius, has it been a good day?"

"A glorious day, Reverend. Praise the Lord," said Cornelius Moncrief, who had been waiting for the Reverend without complaint for over two hours, as he did most every day.

"I'm pleased to hear it. Walk with me a while, Brother?"

They fell silently into step together; the enormous hulking man in the long gray duster—The New City's recently appointed Director of Internal Security—slowing to keep pace with the stooped, hunchbacked preacher, his silver spurs jangling to the rhythm of his limp. Citizens in the street smiled and bowed low to Reverend Day, offering devotions as he passed; the Reverend waved kindly to each member of his flock, a blessing never far from his lips.

Terrified of me; keep up the good work.

"The love of our people is a wonder. Truly a gift from God," said the Reverend, as they left Main Street and made the turn toward the tower.

"Most truly, Reverend."

"And have I mentioned to you, Brother Cornelius, how grateful we are for all your hard labor on behalf of our Church?"

"You're too kind, Reverend," said Cornelius, feeling the same swelling in his chest that arose whenever the Reverend spoke kindly to him, as if he was about to bust out laughing or crying and wasn't sure which.

"Brother, you have returned my faith in you a thousandfold; you bring to the hearts of our Christian soldiers a fighting spirit, inspire them to take up arms with joy and great zeal, inarching forward as one, for the protection of our Flock and the destruction of our Enemies."

Tears flowed freely from Cornelius's eyes; he stopped in his tracks, too overcome to look at the Reverend or respond, bowing and nodding his head. Reverend Day watched him weep, patting a compassionate hand on the man's massive shoulder. No matter how many times I sling this line of bullshit at them, they wolf it down like a pack of starving dogs.

"There now, Brother Cornelius," said Reverend Day, chucking him under the chin. "Thy tears are like the gentle rain of Heaven, that give life to this dry and dusty plain; and flowers bloom where once there was a desert."

Cornelius looked at him, a shy little smile breaking through his tears.

Time for a taste of the Sacrament, thought Reverend Day.

The Reverend hooked Cornelius with his look and turned on the juice, pumping a few measured jolts into him; he watched carefully as the Power drilled into the man's core and went to work, warping his thoughts to suit the Reverend's needs.

A dark shudder ran through his nerves; he loved administering the Sacrament, the delicious sensation of reaching inside them, the intimacy of the contact, caressing the nakedness they so obligingly exposed. These moments of private violation through their eyes were the ones he lived for.

When he saw Cornelius's pupils glaze over, the Reverend pulled back the tendrils of the Power, folded them into place like a Murphy bed, and snapped his fingers in the man's face. Cornelius blinked, the connection broken. His eyes rolled in his head like runaway marbles.

After years of trial and error, the Reverend had learned to regulate his congregation's exposure to the Power, entering them with the delicate touch of a surgeon; dose them correctly and they went pliant as rag dolls for days, a drunkard's grin pasted to their skulls. Give them too little and their minds gradually returned; too strong a measure and drooling into a cup became a full-time occupation. There were more than a few of those failures planted in shallow graves outside the City.

He had to walk a razor's edge with Cornelius; the man's will was strong so he required more juice than most to keep him in line, but the Reverend couldn't risk frying his nervous system. He needed this one. Cornelius had in short order transformed an undisciplined bunch of green recruits into an army; no one in town could match his leadership and tactical skill, tempered by such gleeful barbarism.

And it all took so much effort; Lord, he was tired.

Cornelius opened his eyes. Good, the man was back in his body. Now some Scripture to lead him out of the fog:

"Incline your ear and hear the words of the wise," the Reverend whispered.

Cornelius eagerly leaned down close to him.

"Apply your heart to my knowledge; I have instructed you today so that I may make you know the certainty of the Words of Truth. Hear, my son, and be wise; because only through wisdom a house is built and only by understanding is it made to last."

His eyes focusing again, Cornelius nodded slowly; complete devotion and absolutely zero comprehension.

That's right, you muttonhead, thought the Reverend, watching closely. Message received.

"So," said Reverend Day, walking ahead, back to business, "what good news have you for us today, Brother?"

Cornelius wavered a moment, found his balance, and then fell into step like an obedient cur. ' 'That troupe of actors came through the East Gate, right on schedule," said Cornelius, waving a telegram.

"When?"

" 'Bout an hour ago; should be driving into town any time."

"Isn't that wonderful?" said Day, genuinely enthused. "We can look forward to some lively entertainment. Do you realize how long it's been since I've attended the theater?"

Cornelius frowned. "No?"

Hopeless. Well, never mind.

"Welcome our new arrivals for me and invite them to dinner tonight as my honored guests."

"Sure, Reverend," said Cornelius, pulling out another telegram. "And more good news, sir; our new rifles just came through the Gate, too."

"Marvelous, Brother."

"If it's okay with you, sir, I'll have 'em sent to the warehouse so I can inspect the shipment myself."

"Yes, do that, would you? Now tell me, Brother Cornelius, does the training of our militia go well?"

"Reverend, the way our Brothers and Sisters are giving themselves over to it is an inspiration," said Cornelius, eyes misting over again.

"Fine. How's their marksmanship?"

"Better every day. And when these new rifles are handed out, it'll get even stronger."

"Good, excellent..."

Cornelius's voice caught in his throat, choked up again. "Reverend, I have never been so proud of such a fine group of young people...."

"That's fine," said Day, cutting him off with a sharp chop of his hand, weary of the man's relentless blubbering, so pathetic in a man his size.

They had reached the base of the tower, workers scattering out of his way as he passed. Day stepped into the shadows of the tower, finding relief from the sun under the only shade in sight. As he took off his hat to wipe the sweat off his brow, an electric twitch ran up the stiff length of the Reverend's spine. He recognized the signal immediately, the aura already tightening like a steel band around his forehead.

This was a bad one.

Day felt a trickle of blood flow from his nose. He turned away and covered his face with a handkerchief. Have to hurry now, not much time.

"Excuse me, Brother, I must attend to my meditations," said Reverend Day, waving his hat, shushing him away. "Off you go. Back to work."

Cornelius obsequiously struggled against tears, nodded, and trotted back toward town, glancing over his shoulder for reassurance. Reverend Day waited for his first look, waved once, then hobbled around to the side of the cathedral.

Workers scurried off as he approached. Alone, he fumbled the ring of keys from his pocket and undid a padlock securing two steel flaps cut into the dirt. He lifted a flap, dropped it to the side, and straightened to catch his breath before descending.

Handkerchief turning red in his hand, blood flowing freely.

He took the stairs down into the earth, inserted a key in the black onyx door; the lock yielded with a deep, satisfying snick. He pushed lightly; the immense panel, a marvel of construction and design, pivoted on gimbaled hinges and swung open like a gentle breeze. Reverend Day stepped into the cool air of the sepulcher, then closed and locked the door behind him.

As he stepped quickly through the octagonal foyer, sconces of steel and glass lit his way through a maze of labyrinthine passages carved from barren rock. One hand trailed along walls polished to a silky perfection, boot heels snapped sharply on black marble, following the winding path that only he knew by heart, down into the belly of the church, light growing dim, echoes of his footsteps sounding deeper.

At the second door, he applied the black stone key and entered his private chapel. In addition to Day's, only the eyes of the stonemasons and coolie demolition team who had completed this part of the work had ever seen this private sanctum; they were all buried here now, under the black hexagram mosaic on the white marble floor.

Rougher hewn than the passageways, the rock walls gave off a moist, earthy air; this was the way he wanted it, damp, musty, closer to the heart of the earth. Reverend Day limped around the edge of the hexagram, glancing up at the intricate grillwork in the ceiling, stopping to inspect one of the six small silver caskets on pedestals set at the points of the star.

He opened the casket and let his fingers caress the parchment of the ancient book inside. A folio copy of the Koran. A freshet of blood fell from his lip onto one of its pages. As his blood touched the paper the Power roiled inside him like steam in a dynamo, threatening to burst his skin. He jerked his hand away from the page before damage was done.

Yes; the room worked perfectly, just as the Vision had revealed; it amplified his Power like sunlight through a magnifying glass.

He stopped at the last casket: the only empty one.

One more book and I can complete the Holy Work. And Frederick is on his way with it now; I'll have it within days.

Colored lights flashed around the corners of his sight—ribbons of reds, greens, violets—signaling the onset of the Vision.

Throbbing in his head like a drum, blood pouring from his nose, the Reverend staggered to the center of the star, moaning softly. His hands hung freely at his sides; tingling ran down his arms and legs, horror and wonder filling his insides as the Vision came close. His gaze drifted to the corner of the room where the pit descended; the abandoned mine shaft he'd found waiting here as the Vision had indicated: black, hollow, bottomless. A gust of wind from the depths rustled his hair, its emptiness promising the consummation of his thousand darkest dreams.

The Reverend's eyes rolled back as the Vision seized hold of his muscles and threw him to the floor, legs kicking furiously, fists clenched, arms lashing out in fitful spasms, head thrashing from side to side, bucking against the floor, spittle foaming at his lips, violent, pitiable animal cries strangling his throat.

But his mind stayed clear. An explosion ripped through his center.

The Light from Below, holding him.

And through the folds of its bright embrace, even in the grip of his horrible ecstasy, rumbling from the pit he heard a whisper of the Beast.