Burn by Bill Ransom

was empty, draped in black cloth. These eleven remaining members of the Twelve represented the most powerful communities of North and South America. The Children of Eden organized the Godwire Matrix, wealthy communities operating in concert to control worldwide transportation, petroleum, water, vaccinations and basic foodstuffs.
    “He who controls the religion and the water supply controls all,” the Master had said.
    He didn’t have to mention food, since ViraVax already tailored Artificial Viral Agents to influence crop production for better or worse—depending upon the farmer’s religious preference.
    The commander’s southwest region was a particularly fruitful community, their precious water challenged mainly by the Mormons from the west and the Muslims to the north. Holding these rights required old-fashioned soldiering, and warriors made Noas a lot more comfortable than Artificial Viral Agents.
    Pages, secretaries and the special advisors called Disciples sat at another table inside the crescent, facing the Twelve. Each of these Disciples apprenticed to a particular member of the Twelve. The commander’s own apprentice, Peter Bonyon, studied a desktop display of the ViraVax site and entered a flurry of notes into his Sidekick. Freckles stood out like buckshot on his ultrapale hands and face.
    One apprentice would ascend to the Twelve before the night was over, just as one of the Twelve would be named Master. The commander knew, without doubt, that he would not be the one. His value lay out of the limelight, in the darker alleyways of God’s plan and men’s souls. In the great movie of the world, the Master must always wear a white hat. David Noas was the voice that is always at the white hat’s ear, the sword always at his side, hungry for Babylonian blood.
    Except this time, he thought, when it counted
    He shook off the self-whipping. In all likelihood, had he gone down with the Master he would have died with him, like the rest. The commander had made valuable inroads in the fight against the infidels, the heathens, the idolators—and the Master recognized him for that, praising him publicly and often.
    “Subcontract and Subvert” had been the Noas plan. He hired out units of his Jesus Rangers to any acceptable military force fighting a holy war.
    “Choose the Christian side and fight the others,” he’d told the Master. “Learn everything there is to learn about the Christians who hire you. You have said yourself that we will fight them later, during the Days of Fire. We must know their weakness. If they are in a spending mood, let them spend on us.”
    That was ten years ago. Now, even the United States government hired the Jesus Rangers for contract jobs and U.N. missions. In Latin America and Canada, they fought Catholics. They fought Muslims, Jews and assorted heathen in Africa and the Middle East; Catholics again in England, Ireland and Scotland; Sikhs in India and Canada; in China they got their butts burned by the breath of the godless dragon. That was an expensive and painful lesson in patience.
    Then, at the commander’s suggestion, the feds hired the Jesus Rangers as a Gang Turf Assault Force, specializing in taking the urban war into the homes of the enemy. The strategy was time-honored: identify a gang that they could work with, support that gang to destroy the rest until, in theory, it all boils down to the feds and one last gang per neighborhood. Commander Noas had finished negotiations with the Justice Department on that very lucrative contract just yesterday, and had been looking forward to presenting the good news to the Master.
    “Bowl and water.”
    The thick-tongued voice snapped Noas back to the present. A female Innocent in a sky-blue service suit clunked the ritual vessels down on the table.
    “Towel.”
    She was reciting to herself more than she was speaking to him. She folded the white hand towel neatly beside his bowl. Her cheeks and nose were blotchy and a little