The Apostates Book Two: Remnants Read online

  Before long the checkered cab had wound its way up the hilly drive to “The King’s House”, which in colonial times had served as the Royal residence when British Monarchy visited, but now served as the house to receive dignitaries. President Zola Dekker and Prime Minister Rudie McCook had considered the Apostates dignitaries and friends when they had last visited the island, so it appeared to Consuela that nothing had changed. The checkered cab pulled into the carport near the front entrance of the stately home. Consuela stepped out as the driver got her door, and she approached the heavy wooden front door. A man standing by in a black suit and skinny tie, and matching fedora, nodded to her and opened the front door to let her pass. She remembered the grand foyer well, filled with marvelous antiques from different periods of history. Consuela was led back to the receiving room, also meticulously decorated with ornate furnishing. On a sofa sat the President and Prime Minister, who, when Consuela showed herself, jumped up from the couch and hurried over to greet her with a glowing smiled and warm laughter. The Heads of the Jamaican Government did not get many visitors from abroad so they always made it an occasion when they did, but more so for old friends. Consuela returned the heartfelt embraces.

  “Consuela Grajales! It is honor to see you again after so long!” President Dekker exclaimed.

  “Yes, yes, girl! Come in and sit with us!” Prime Minister McCook invited her over to the seating area.

  “Thank you both! It’s been too long since I last saw you. And, I can’t tell you the last time I have set foot in such a nice place,” she praised her surroundings.

  “So, Consuela, what brings you back to Jamaica? Your visit was so surprising,” President Dekker asked, “Something to drink?” she added.

  “Oh, yes, I’ll take some water or juice—well, I decided to stop here because it is on my way back to Nicaragua, my home,” Consuela answered, as a glass of pineapple juice was handed to her by a porter.

  “Ah, you are returning home. Consuela—I wouldn’t recommend it,” Prime Minister McCook offered the warning.

  “Why do you say that? It is my home—I must return to see my family,” Consuela proclaimed. She wore a troubled look on her face.

  “I don’t presume to tell you what to do, but our intelligence reports have told us that the alliance between the ‘Database’ cartels and the Order of the Pentagram holds. Or, rather, the Order calls the shots—as the revenue stream of the cartels have been damaged since the fall of the Regime of New Megiddo. The Order has consolidated its hold over Central America,” Prime Minister McCook added.

  “Still—that will not keep me from my home. My parents and sibling—I left there,” Consuela became choked up, but she held back the tears.

  “Oh, child! I will not stop you from going home. But, I will not tolerate you going alone! Now, we are going to assign a detail of our best Rude Boys to you—I won’t take no for an answer,” President Dekker insisted. Consuela smiled.

  “How could I refuse? If I did you would smother me with amazing food and hospitality until you drained away my resolve—” Consuela jested.

  “Ha! If it wasn’t your family on the line I would have made you a citizen by now and put you under house arrest!” President Dekker quipped.

  When Consuela, President Dekker and Prime Minister Rudie McCook were all finished visiting, they brought her back to the Port of Kingston, where they had assembled ten Rude Boys, loyal to the government to accompany Consuela on her mission to Nicaragua. In addition to this detail, they procured for Consuela’s expedition, a checkered microbus, and the Prime Minister arranged for a ferry to transport them all to the coast of Nicaragua. Consuela was thankful that she would not have to travel with the stench of rotten fish constantly assaulting her senses. After a brief inspection of the men, the President gave her blessing for the journey to begin. As Consuela bid farewell to the President and Prime Minister, they pledged their military support should an opportunity present itself that they could break the power of the Order of the Pentagram. With that Consuela and her detachment of Rude Boys boarded the ferry with their checkered microbus and set out across the sea for the East Coast of Nicaragua.

  ⍟ ⍟ ⍟

  Simon Scrubb’s delegation had crossed the vast expanse of the Central Asian Steppe. Along the way, they had come across many, small, independent city-states and villages. Some had been peaceful farming communities, others had been kleptocracies, and still some were feudal states run by strongmen. Many of these settlements had agreed to listen to what Simon’s delegation was offering, the opportunity to change their people’s lives for the better through the technology of neural implants. Simon’s delegation had the capabilities to perform the neural implant installation operation on a few willing heads of state or elders to demonstrate the benefits of neural networking. Once the leader was thoroughly impressed and then agreed to the Neo Railroad’s terms as well as a nominal fee, a communication would be sent back to West Europa for neural implant manufacturing equipment, like three-dimensional bio-organic printers and other field lab and medical equipment, to be shipped east. Specially trained personnel would also make the long journey to the location of the new clients.

  Indeed, Simon Schrubb had blazed a trail of success through Central Asia, that would soon be marked by interconnected communications of newly created nodes to the network. The [World-Net] would soon not be a dream, but a reality, like the Internet before it. There were holdouts, however, or even those who greeted his delegation was hostility. On a few rare occasions, skirmishes had broken out with gangs that had tried to hijack Simon’s equipment. It was only through mobility and superior weaponry that the delegation was able to escape harm. Now that the treacherous road was at an end, and his delegation sat in the Foreign Embassy in Beijing, China, Simon did reflect on his successes and failures. China would be his biggest challenge. The ancient Country had never fallen completely. It remained largely intact, even during the great Die-off of the late Twenty-first Century and it emerged victorious after the Holy War, or Great War Against Western Tyranny, as they called it in the East.

  Simon and his top scientists sat waiting in the receiving area outside a banquet hall within the embassy. He passed the time by crunching source code to help optimize traffic bandwidth on the neural networks, and development work on various retinal H.U.D. applications. He did not mind the waiting because he was able to work on his projects, and despite the satisfaction he received from spreading the technology he did not actually enjoy the envoy work. Soon, an aide was sent out and beckoned Simon’s delegation into the banquet hall. Three sets of double doors opened to reveal a vast room, filled with hotplate serving tables, which hosted a wide variety of ethnic foods from around the country. There was a table dedicated to appetizers, such as Chinese pickles, dim sum, and small cauldrons containing soup of the egg drop and oxtail varieties. A larger table was set back from there, which housed entrees. This created a cacophony of aromas that permeated the air, scents of ginger, oyster sauce, and various peppers could all be distinguished. Beyond the tables filled with food and drink was a large, rectangle table with the Chinese Ambassador and several other government officials. They had already started eating their meals, in an apparent show to their guests that they found themselves superior. Despite the display, Simon and his delegation were invited to be seated on the other side of the table. Simon willed his D.A.D. to occupy an area at the table cleared of chairs, and two attendants came to him with a food blender, and funneling device in tow. The Chinese delegation watched silently as Simon’s aides ran through his food preparation process. Simon realized that the Chinese ambassador and other officials were scrutinizing his culinary routine, he sent a communique via his neural implants instructing them to clear the equipment from the table. He would eat later.

  Suddenly, a small drone appeared hovering over the table. Simon entered a schematic image captured by his retinal H.U.D. into an application he designed for his own use that would analyze
and cross-reference the drone’s components against a massive database off all known drone ‘tech’, then the software would estimate the drone’s functions. In this way, Simon figured out that the drone was a language translation device. Simon sat patiently and waited for the Chinese delegation to speak. After a few sips of sake, tea, and several lit cigarettes by the government officials, the ambassador spoke,

  “Wènhòu, xīn de tiĕlù lǚkè. Wǒ dàshǐ bānchāo.” the Ambassador stated.

  “Greeting, Neo Railroad travelers. I am ambassador Ban Chao.” Speakers on the sides of the hovering drone sounded out, and Simon congratulated himself being correct about the drone’s function.

  “Zhōnghuá mínguó huānyíng dàjiā. Wǒguó zhèngfǔ yǐ shěnchá nín suǒ tíjiāo de xiàngmù xìnxī,” Ambassador Ban Chao continued.

  “My Government has reviewed the project information you submitted,” the drone spat out in English.

  “Jīngguò shèn chóng kǎolǜ, wǒmen rènwéi, zhōngguó bìng bù xūyào nǐ de fúwù. (After careful consideration, we believe that China does not need your services,)” the Ambassador said, with the drone in tow, to the shock of Simon.

  “Rán'ér. Wǒmen jiāng jiēshòu yǐ shìyìtú de xíngshì nǐ de lǐwù, (However, we will accept your gift in the form of schematics,)” Ambassador Ban Chao concluded. Simon’s face contorted as he struggled to speak, and he was visually angered.

  “Now, just...wait...a minute! We come here on...a humanitarian mission to...bring your country...into the next century! That does not...mean...we are handing...the technology out for...free!” Simon exclaimed. When the translator drone output the speech to Mandarin, the Ambassador’s eyes widened, “My father...Martino Franco...invented the...neural implant...and neural networking...It is my proprietary technology...therefore...you can accept...or leave it...but the Neo Railroad provides...the networking,” Simon gave the ultimatum with much effort. The Ambassador stared at Simon with anger flashing in his eyes.

  “Rúhé fàngsì, nǐ rènwéi zhōngguó xūyào nǐ de wánjù. Wǒmen yǒu satallites, bìng yǒu yǔháng yuán zài tàikōng. Wǒmen jiāng fāzhǎn wǒmen zìjǐ de shénjīng zhí rù wù! (How presumptuous of you to think that China needs your toys. We have satellites in orbit and have astronauts in space. We will develop our own neural implants!)” Ambassador Ban Chao jumped up from his chair and pointed his finger at Simon. Simon remained calm.

  “Ambassador, I mean no...disrespect, but...the neural implant technology would take...you years to complete. West Europa, the North African Union, even tribes...to the west of China...already have the technology...in place. You wil be at a disadvantage...to your rivals. I want to avert...aggression by making...sure that everyone...has this technology...that is my mission!” Simon was red in the face, and out of breath because of the exertion from talking so much. The Ambassador turned to the others in his delegation, and there were murmurs of discussion, off the record and untranslated. After several minutes of heated debate in Mandarin, the Ambassador turned back to Simon and made eye contact.

  “Hěn hǎo. Zhōngguó huì jiēshòu nǐ de fúwù. Dāngrán, wǒ xūyào cóng shǒu yìng de zuìzhōng pīzhǔn, (Very well. China will accept your service. But, I will need final approval from the Premiere, first,)” Ambassador Ban Chao agreed. He gestured for the Neo Railroad delegates to eat and drink, anxious to conclude this discussion. Simon Schrubb thanked the Ambassador, and as the rest of his team filled their bellies on Chinese cuisine and drink, he sat at the table, in his D.A.D., crunching code.

  ⍟ ⍟ ⍟

  Consuela sat in the back of the checkered microbus amid a sea of black suits and fedoras. She was appreciative that President Zola Dekker provided her with Rude Boy protection, but she had no idea what to talk about with these men, in fact, she had always been awkward around boys in general. She thought it ironic that she has taken numerous lives but was still a virgin. Consuela was made to grow up fast and the Apostate Uprising had kept her from living a normal life. She looked herself over and tried to imagine how a stranger would size her up based on what she was wearing. The utilitarian tunic, and trousers, along with the combat boots screamed ruggedness. The bandana and goggles she kept handy probably would tell the stranger that she was prepared for bad weather conditions. The ballistic, armored cuirass, greaves, sidearm, and plasma spear would tell a passerby she was not a body to be trifled with. This confirmed to her that she was not meant for a domestic life, and yet she did not know what her destiny would be, yet.

  “Hello, miss!” a tall, well-built man said to her while moving to the back of the bus and sitting in the same row of seats as her on the opposite side. He lounged casually on the seats like her owned the vehicle.

  “Hi,” she returned the greeting. Something looked familiar about the Man, “Can I help you with something?” she asked.

  “Maybe, you see, it has been quite a while but I haven’t forgotten. You probably do not remember me but I remember you,” the Grinning Man said as he readjusted his fedora. His dark skin contrasted with his glowing, white teeth.

  “I’m sorry, you have to be more specific,” she told him.

  “Well, it was the last time you and your friends had visited the island. You were with the President’s party, at the Skankin’ Iguana,” the Grinning Man recounted.

  “Yes! I remember that fun night—great music!” Consuela reminisced.

  “Right, you were with many, but, one, in particular, had caught my eye. She had bright red hair, like the sun,” the Man’s grin grew wider when he mentioned these details.

  “Blaze, you mean Blaze-Scorch!” Consuela exclaimed, finishing his thought.

  “That is the one! Blaze-Scorch, she had said that she loved Jamaica to me, and said she wanted to return one day. I was hoping she would be with you when I got the news, but—I do not see her,” the Man’s grin receded.

  “Excuse me, what is your name, sir?” Consuela inquired. She had remembered his face from that night.

  “You can call me “Shamrock” because I am so lucky, though my given name is Malcolm,” he said, this time without grinning. He wondered if there was something wrong.

  “Shamrock, I wish I had good news for you—but—Blaze-Scorch did not make it. She sacrificed herself trying to save her patients in a sinking ship at sea, she rests now in the depths,” Consuela recounted the grim tale. Shamrock did not grin.

  “I see—I—I am glad she died nobly,” he said with a solemn look on his face. He took off his hat and pressed it to his chest and looked to the sky. He was silent for a moment.

  “I am sorry to tell you this,” Consuela consoled.

  “Do you know who was responsible?” Shamrock asked grimly.

  “Well, some of the people who had a part in her demise I am on my way to fight,” she announced.

  “What is the name of the group who did this?” Shamrock asked with a face of stone.

  “It’s complicated—but—partial responsibility can be pinned on the Order of the Pentagram,” she said, stretching the truth.

  “Well, then, I will fight these demons too, for what they did to Blaze. You can be sure of this!” Shamrock announced, with a grin returning to his face. He put a hand out and grasped Consuela’s in a gesture of solidarity. Shamrock smiled, then sat back in his seat, and tilted his fedora forward over his face as to block out the daylight to get sleep. Consuela returned to her thoughts and peered out the window of the bus. They traveled over rough, poorly maintained pavement and gravel. The jungle cover ever threatened to consume all man-made paths and structures in this part of Nicaragua. She did not know how Shamrock was able to sleep with such a bumpy ride. The ferry had made landfall on the East Coast of Nicaragua at a town called Puerto Cabezas and once offloaded it had not taken the Rude Boys long to find the old route 5 west. So, here they were, making the rough journey west, en route to Nueva Grenada, Consuela’s hometown. She could hardly contain her excitement to see her family once more.

  The driver had noticed that
their bus was low on fuel, and being an internal combustion engine they would need to be extra diligent to procure fuel. So they stopped in at a town called Mulukuku, the funny name being a word in the Miskito language that meant ‘Rivera de Sahinos’. As the bus pulled into the town, Consuela was disturbed by the markings of spraypainted pentagrams on each structure. It seemed that the rumors she had heard were true, the Order had conquered the area. She wondered if the Order had a presence within the town currently. The bus pulled off the main road into a lot, with a sign that read, “Estación de servicio,” and the passengers came pouring out to stretch their legs and look for something to eat. The Driver looked around and waited for an attendant to greet them. At last, a squat, elderly man emerged from a shanty off to the side of the service station, he coughed and smelled of tobacco smoke.

  “Hola amigos. ¿Cómo puedo ayudarte? (Hello, friends. How may I help you?)” the Old Man said, between coughing fits. He spat on the pavement.

  “Gas, por favor,” the Driver asked.

  “Ah, si, yes,” the Old Man mumbled, and waddled off to a mass of barrels and old fuel cans to the side of his shanty. He gathered an old bundle of plastic tubing. and then stuck one end inside the barrel containing the gasoline. He then grabbed the other end had strutted toward the driver. The Old Man shoved the end of the tube into the Driver’s chest and said, “Suck!”. The other Rude Boys laughed at the scene they had witnessed. The Driver grudgingly accepted the end of the tube and dragged it over to the gas cap of the bus. He began the slow process of siphoning fuel from the barrel, into the fuel tank of the bus. The Old Man watched with amusement. Consuela approached the Old Man.

  “Señor, por favor, ¿Puedes hablar un minuto? (Mister, please, can you talk for a minute?)” Consuela asked the Old Man.