Burn by Bill Ransom Page A

swollen.
    Could it be that even the Innocents grieve for the Master?
    “You’ve been crying,” Noas asked her. “What’s the matter?”
    “Brother Lee, he mad. Brother Lee scare me when he mad.”
    The commander patted the girl’s shoulder.
    “Brother Lee’s mad because the Master died and he couldn’t stop it,” he explained.
    “I don’t want nobody to die. I cry.”
    They don’t grieve for the Master, they grieve for us! And we harvest their organs like just another crop!
    “If you get your chores done, then that’s one thing he won’t have to worry about,” he said. “What do you have next? Bread and water?”
    She nodded and stroked his hand.
    “Bread and water,” she said.
    “You go fetch them now,” the commander said. “Everything will be all right.”
    He saw Sergeant Tekel enter the Acolyte’s door. Beyond the Disciples sat the forty-eight Acolytes of the Diaspora. Many of these seats were empty, and one of these was also draped with black cloth. The indicator on his tabletop told Commander Noas that the missing man was Miguel Alonso, the representative from Costa Brava.
    Noas nodded a greeting to Tekel, who pointed towards the Ready Room and shrugged. The commander nodded, and held up an index finger for “first thing.”
    Except for the persistent sounds of weeping, the customary ritual foot-washing proceeded in silence even as tabletop displays unreeled the Godwire news and the fragments of graphic footage from Milwaukee, Tennessee, and Costa Brava. Commander Noas took the bowl and cloth from Sebastian Ferguson, laid a perfunctory swipe over Ferguson’s shoes before passing the items along.
    Someone activated the peel-and-peek system throughout Chambers, and a dozen giant images of Major Ezra Hodge stared out at him from the flat screens around the walls. Hodge held no rank in the Jesus Rangers. He was a U.S. Army major in the Defense Intelligence Agency, stationed in the Confederation of Costa Brava, and one of the church’s most valuable operatives.
    He can ferret out information, all right, the commander thought, but he has no idea what to do with it.
    Hodge was clearly uncomfortable, blotting his sweat and waiting on-screen for the seating and foot-washing to end. Some of the Acolytes still took the time to remove their shoes and perform the ritual properly. The commander redirected console output to his Sidekick for his personal analysis later.
    Major Hodge’s chubby face was pale except for his red-rimmed eyes and the red chafing around his nostrils. The major’s eyes were sunken, haunted, and he hunched over his pickup like a crone. The plant life in Chambers drowned out his tremulous voice beyond the first three rows, but pickups simultaneously translated and transmitted his speech to every console in the chamber.
    “Brethren,” Hodge began, “I am grieved to announce that here, in Costa Brava, the Master is dead and the Apocalypse is at hand.”
    “It was the Catholics!” a voice shouted from the back. “It’s time we sent them all to Satan!”
    An angry babble supported this judgment. Commander Noas noted that the original shout came from James Kane, a Disciple with well-known aspirations but little substance. A lift of his eyebrow towards Apprentice Bonyon, and a nod of recognition. The commander soon would know more of the recent movements and associations of Brother James Kane.
    Hodge had enough stage presence to let them shout and pound their fists before raising his hand for silence.
    “They will wed their filthy bridegroom soon enough,” Hodge promised, his pudgy nose in high twitch, his double chin quivering over his tight, sweaty collar.
    Who put you on the high horse, Hodge?
    “Our entire ViraVax facility, which has fed the world’s hunger and vanquished its diseases, was wiped out last night when the Catholics sabotaged our dam in Costa Brava. This very dam had been doomed to obsolescence by our recent patent for Sunspots, presented to this body not quite