False providence, p.12
False Providence, page 12
“Our Sleeper agent Gaia, she met with you at your church, correct? I ask sharply in tone and manner; flirting will only take me so far – I still had a job to do.
“What's wrong, Persephone? You don't trust me?” The nature of this question was very well disguised as I could not tell if he was upset or just playing with me.
“My dear preacher, do not be so offended, it just so happens I don't trust anyone but the sleeper cell is unknown to all but high-ranking soldiers and escorts and must remain that way” I say solemnly as we started treading shallow water.
The tug is angular, bulky and twenty feet high, on first sighting it looks like a houseboat but Antioch banned them years before. Soldiers man the bridge while others guide the refugees into a gutted cargo hold.
There are bunks and wash basins but very little else, I prepare for the indignation from the older escapees as I'm basically asking them to be holed up in one space for several hours. There would be food and warmth and bathroom breaks but there were essentially in hiding.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, Welcome aboard the freedom freight ship Hepburn, she has ferried many of you through the Southern Rivers of Antioch many, many times. In the fifteen years of our operation she has saved and smuggled out hundreds of lives. Be kind, be patient, we are all in the same fix”
Emile gave his speech in a soft and accommodating fashion, he was the Captain after all yet whispers still ushered soon after he closed the veil.
The veil was a smokescreen made of wooden shelves, a T-shaped pantry of contraband goods and materials made for the boat to look like the vessel of shady traders and nothing more.
The good news was that however pious Antioch tried to be, people would always get drunk on power and seeing as absolute power was of premium volume it didn't take much for the River Watchmen to be paid off. Usually with the fake merchandise stored in the boat for that exact reason.
Even with all my errands, Damascus trawls around behind me, I should mind but I don't- I notice that others do, that my superior does. He should be in the cargo hold with the others, instead he talks with Wilma and I catch myself hoping it isn't about me. The engine chugs into life and it's a quiet, congested sound, enough to be heard but not enough for the current to violently downstream.
We travel far into the neighboring regions of Lourdes, Stewart and Jean-Baptiste, the river changes names three or four times before we cross the same crisis point.
“Bernadette bridge is a mile out, best spread the word” Said the Bosun.
“Where are we?” He leans a little too close to me and I'm thankful for the gloom for shielding my blushed face.
“Between the Jean-Baptiste and Stewart boroughs is a bridge, a watch tower of sorts, as we go further north we’ll see more River guards but not in this fog….But they still may get us” I lower my voice with every voice that passes, the priest notice then tenses up as he leans against a wall.
“Quiet, everyone we’re coming up to the crossing” I hear Wilma warn as she guards the special cargo. You only notice how thin the walls are when the refugees start shushing everyone.
All that remains are the sounds of the engine, the croaking of bull frogs and the rushing of water.
I very cautiously step towards the bay door as everyone naturally looks up and waits…
Chapter 5
‘How can people change their minds about us, if they don’t know who we are?’
Harvey Milk, 25th June 1978
Aglow of a torch floats through the rafters and cracks of the walkway and I hold my breath I look at the priest and catch him staring, it confuses me for a second but I'm focused quickly after it.
Out of nowhere muffled shouts erupt underneath my feet, in horror I race to the cargo hold to find it already open as two or three guards tried to hush up a passenger. His rabid behavior proves he was never a refugee but a spy. A hopeless and dangerous irony that I try to ignore, not to say the traitor escaped punishment, he didn't.
Emile and his men made a small huddle as they try desperately to block his efforts of alerting the watchmen to his whereabouts. I note that his fellow travelers have stepped back from the fracas like he was diseased but their treachery was quite the hateful malady. I watch Emile issue orders and awkwardly glimpse at the young women staring at me in awe.
Shirking back into the hall somebody attempts to talk normal I push my finger against my closed lips and shake my head. I wait as the turncoat is dragged into the moonlight and I stare coldly at him.
“Eagle Watch’s golden boy…” Mocks the Haitian while he fights to keep the deejay under duress.
“Solomon Ford, how dare you come aboard this vessel” I growl, he just smirks which makes me positively incandescent with rage.
“I'm surprised Western Liberal trash like you know how to drive one, wasted journey regardless of the effort, you're gonna get caught!” He grimaced
“For what exactly, Ford? Black market trading? Did you know that State Police buy spare materials from us? Ammo, uniforms, banned litany, hmm?” I snarl and let him have it without trying not to raise my voice.
“Many people thought President Craven was the second coming, he wasn't - he's just an overblown televangelist that happened to make his sermons from the White House. Your Commissioner does the exact same thing, not only did she make Jesus personal, she made Him a product. Your state is a sham, Solomon, I’ll gladly risk my life to show it as a sham”
I'm mad with vengeance Completely caught up in it like a storm I'm drowning in.
I stare at Emile and he huffs at me, I hint at the deck and the traitor is thrown overboard, we’re already rumbled so his shouts don't make much of a difference. Alarmed voices come from above and an automatic rifle is shot in the dark. The fog is still thick but the guards don't seem to care for precision tonight.
The freedom fighters scatter, some follow me, others take positions across the broadside, I jump into a motorized dinghy and one soldier starts the rudder engine. I'm not prepared to see the priest tumble behind me.
“Get back on the boat, your task is done, go be a refugee and save yourself” I grumble as I hurriedly swipe my hair into a bun and zip up a warmer jacket.
The lined cotton feels quite nice and my bones relax for all but a second.
“No, I want to find the people on that list, you think Bishop Amos is compromised? Fine – I want to see this school for myself”
My jaw drops at the clergyman’s sudden audacity to force his plans over my own, I try not to be prejudiced in thinking it's the superiority complex that's drummed into all Antioch citizens but it’s rather a difficult task.
“Are you trained in combat?” I babble, still shocked.
“Some” Damascus remarks in a perturbed fashion
“Are you…Familiar with the professionals you are now in company with?” I couldn't likely say espionage outright, what kind of resistance fighter would I be if I did that?
“No” The handsome if arrogant charlatan of a priest then added
“…I know the law”
This is where he gets under my skin and stays there like a splinter, a mark or a burn, it affects my blood and makes it boil to the point I’m raising a clenched fist and stare at the water.
“Do you know how to swim??” I snarl but he takes no notice, the engine roars into life and we’re ride away from the boat.
I watch as Emile shoots bullets into the river bank behind stopping the soldiers from wading into the water. Ghouls made by jostled torch lights fly furiously in the foggy air making all hands on both vessels fly into action. The refugee boats bolts for freedom by ramping up the speed a few knots while I try to keep my balance with the swiftness of the speedboat
“I'll meet you in the tribal lands, be careful” I hear Emile shout, looking back I see figures on the stern of the lug boat.
I look back as my damp pony tail flies around my face and I barely see the Haitian, things were going to plan even though it certainly didn't feel like it.
“Je Vais, bonne chance” I call back and then my heart starts to sink as I grapple with a reconnaissance mission I have to head alone, the runaway priest aggravates matters further.
✽ ✽ ✽
We travel for hours and the chorus of Alsatians barking dies down after the first miles and I find myself grateful for the silence. The Navigator by the name of Jonah Murrow took us further North West into the forest of Neveah which would take us into the heart of Ephesus.
The forest is barren and empty of life, bare branches web all around me and we disembark from the boat without a word. The rustling of branches as we trundle through puts me on edge.
Winter had very few friends and for good reason, when the trees start breaking up more spaces, I take out a thin torch and very carefully unfold a weathered map of Antioch, even looking upon it feels wrong. It looks like a shoe or a horn or a square twisted out of shape.
The General showed me the U.S map once, it was huge and had illustrations all around it, of Wolves and bears and entertainers and leaders and castles. Even a sketch of a man in an odd white suit Wyatt called an ‘Astronaut’ – whatever that was.
The map was so very different to the one I held in my hands, it was whole and has as many as fifty states! With cities called Washington and Los Angeles and Sacramento, I loved hearing his travel stories but the joy of religion vying for them was always short-lived. Sometimes I blame myself for aggravating his mad obsession to get it back even more.
Whatever the map was of now was certainly not my home, I lost our journey so far and warily acknowledge how close we are to our focal point.
“Welcome to Nevaeh Forest everyone, we’re more at risk for being shot by hunters than guards but never mind” I slur as I pass the map and point at the Eastern tip of the wood, my fellow operative nods then start unpacking.
I gather some branches and leaves and get a fire going with my plastic fire starter.
The weather shields the light enough for our location to be a safe one, for a while anyway. I'm grateful for the little warmth my clothes and nearby flame emanates. The priest asks the oddest question, almost like a child afraid to speak up. I look at him and wonder what happened to his voice so soft and calm.
“Can I see the map?” He whispers with such insecurity
“…Of the mission? No, you may not…But it's the continental one you want isn't it? Did the Institute ban geography or something?” I mock him but it's rueful and not malicious but still he snaps back and I guess in hindsight he was entitled to.
“Any better than yours?” He scowls and those beautiful eyes show a furnace behind them, I admire it's secrecy I have to admit.
I make a face then rifle through my backpack to my scroll box, unscrewing the lid I turn it upside down until the furled map comes out. The six regions are marked by six colors among them was one of the few remaining remnants of the American tricolor. Anybody that knows that information was taught like I was but it's a scarred history that is barely relevant these days.
The twisted horn painted in Red is Antioch, the rivers and towns are etched in gold ink, Galilee is the North East is white, it’s towns and rivers are marked in an ivory ink. The twin Capitals of Edison-Tesla straddle a strait of the River Darwin. There are patches of grey that pinpoint the neutral Amish territories that pepper the land here and there.
In a strip of the Midwest is of course Free Nation and the tribal lands known as Keyah that have no Capital, treacherously below was Paramos. I tap at the western blue-marked province of New Rome and the districts of Constantine, Charlemagne and Artemisia or Sia for short.
I then feel a pang of homesickness, I've been away from the safety of my shanty towns for too long. Spending most of the winter in a place that would most likely substitute for hell if it wasn't so damn cold.
I look at him and study his face, the priest’s expression was of confusion and awe and the eagerness to learn more.
“You've never seen the neighboring provinces like this, have you?” I say, while catching on to his sudden sadness.
No, no not like this – banned material this is, Paramos, Orisha, Free Nation, Galilee, The Texan Republic - I've never seen it altogether like this. Galilee, a place of non-believers” The Priest guffawed and again I wonder if I'm wasting my time.
“Must you think so badly of difference? Their faith is fact and equation, cures and respecting and investigating the unknown. Their religion is the betterment of Man by knowledge, what's wrong with that?” I rebuke with squinted eyes.
I wanted to know this man but what was the point if the Word of an Antiochian was all he spoke of?
“All answers are supposed to lie with God, Ed heads say an explosion created the universe, I say God let the light in, God makes every path every soul takes, every soul”
The holy man insists and the twinkle in his eyes shows his devotion. It might do some good in New Rome but I'm glad not to be around it for long.
“Including yours, Damascus? God brought you right here in the middle of a forest in the dead of winter, did He?” I scorn him but he's relentless in his preaching - which is ironic considering the looks I catch from him from time to time.
“It's true that my path is different now but no less important than it was yesterday, special things could be ahead of me” He mused with a flirty grin
“Yeah like getting caught!” My watchman interjects and I laugh while ignoring the tension that crumbles to pieces around us.
I remember myself and finally tend to my duties with my accompanying officer and we talk quietly, away from the civilian tag along and the dread comes back. Gazing into my task portfolio I snoop upon a sketch of the rundown property of Jordan Springs Correctional Facility.
It's as bad as I expect it to be, re-conditioning, laborious punishments and rumors of radical religious study. Paying no more attention to the priest, Damascus starts shifting firewood in a pile as I start calculating with a compass.
✽ ✽ ✽
After a fairly hair-raising chase, Emile is forced to go to plan B, or in this case V for vaudeville act. With a houseboat as the stage and soldiers as the players the lieutenant feigns a smile and brings a bravado to the fore based. From the offset he acts like a Paramos soldier of fortune albeit a groveling one.
The opposing task force climb aboard led by a big brute of a man, Caleb Martin was a man in his forties, loyal and devout to the cause of the institute.
His first and last vote as a U.S citizen was for Robert Joseph Craven and he didn't regret it, the world was too open, too liberal, all that one world bullshit was nonsense. The upset of feelings was the very least a person could do, so many whiners and hippies, change had to come.
Did he want a civil war? No but the result was a great and God-fearing province like Antioch, some days he felt invincible when he should have been humble.
But that was the Strength of the righteous, invigorating, world- altering and empowering like nothing else.A weapon fashioned by Magdalena Marr herself, a soldier of faith in the extreme sense of the word.
Radical, conservative with the bible as Law. The Military police that were akin to the likes of Martin were the ones the freedom fighters were most afraid of, after all how do you kill an idea?
“Just what exactly is a trawler boat doing so far upstream in the middle of the night?”
The Soldier scowled as he walked down the deck looking upon each face of the crew. He watched as a black man stepped towards him and oh how Caleb’s prejudices raged at him, but he would give him a fighting chance at least.
“Salmon is a lucrative business these days, officer” Emile unwisely taunted but he was not afraid. He had a boat load of people to think of so strategy was absolutely everything at the moment.
“Do fisherman wear armored gear where you're from, skipper? West-Indian? So much piracy these days. We can't use you on land anymore so where else but the sea for you?” Caleb cawed and his men grinned and even chuckled a little.
THUMP went the proverbial bible, a tool just as sharp as the lash three hundred years before only this time the former was more dangerous as the bigots actually thought their rights were divine.
“All waters are dangerous, sir – sharks in the oceans, alligators in the straits, you can't be too careful” The Haitian feigned a smile much like the crocodile would once he drowned it's prey.
“Indeed, care if I search your ship…Captain?”
“Not at all, everything is above board and as it should be” Emile replied cheerily.
His men stood frozen and he just stared back and slowly nodded and with that they very slowly, very quietly went about business just as they rehearsed.
The MP’s combed the rooms from bough to stern and it appeared to look very bland and orderly. The only problem Martin had with it was it didn't look lived in enough, not disheveled or personable enough to be completely believable.
The soldier’s sense of smell guided him to the mess hall were a huge stew pot was bubbling nicely. The smell seemed to be something of a mushroom soup or broth, the aroma was earthy and strong. Luckily for Emile, the loaves were still stored in the cabinets, the patrol did look but they didn't see enough.
Unlike their commanding officer of course.
“That’s a large chow pot for a ship’s crew, big appetites here are there Skipper?” Noted the enemy with a little bit of venom in the remark.
“It's a cold night sir, we often make bread with the crew, the port asters it's the least we can do for the great State Police of Antioch”
It was a jibe and Martin knew it was a jibe but he didn't add anything further until one of the men ‘found’ the cargo hold.
The shelves were stacked with holy trinkets, wine bread, bibles, tobacco, catfish and harvest grains. What was secretly known as the favor flotilla. Antioch would rain gifts on potential allies and new congregators of Mayflower, some days in worked other days it didn't. Other days a party would be had for the flotilla – Like the famous one in Boston all those years ago.
