The Last Crucible: Seeds of Rage

By Darren N. Webster

With the Union and the Confederacy locked in a vicious and shadowy war for supremacy, The Last Crucible tells the story of one man’s journey to escape it all. Caught in the middle of the chaos, former Union agent, John C. Rhodes, ends up on a brutal and bloody path of discovery. He is no hero, no saint, and no deliverer – just a bad man who unwillingly becomes the champion for good.
John must first contend with his greatest adversary: himself. And there is more to him and his past than he realizes. But the path ahead offers him no peace. John’s efforts to break free of the madness only draws him deeper into the endless war, and deeper into the shadows that he is trying to escape. Old allies become new enemies, and new friends become accomplices in what will be the trial of John’s life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jan 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9781398406124

Darren N. Webster

Darren N. Webster is a writer and a poet, whose eclectic style of storytelling vividly brings to life visions of the future by tapping into the deeper psyche of humanity. Across all his work, he portrays the seemingly unbelievable as down-to-earth relatable, as he fills his characters with the most human attributes. The prevailing term is always one of introspection, as he takes us into the conflicted minds of deeply flawed heroes and frighteningly familiar villains. All the while presenting them in caricaturesque worlds which ultimately mirror our own reality.

Book preview

About the Author

Darren N. Webster is a writer and a poet, whose eclectic style of storytelling vividly brings to life visions of the future by tapping into the deeper psyche of humanity. Across all his work, he portrays the seemingly unbelievable as down-to-earth relatable, as he fills his characters with the most human attributes. The prevailing term is always one of introspection, as he takes us into the conflicted minds of deeply flawed heroes and frighteningly familiar villains. All the while presenting them in caricaturesque worlds which ultimately mirror our own reality.

Dedication

For my beloved children, Zoe, Quinn, Michael, and Karrigan. Have the wisdom to know the path, and the strength to walk it.

Copyright Information ©

Darren N. Webster 2022

The right of Darren N. Webster to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398406117 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398406124 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2022

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

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E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

A life-time of Bible study, an obsession with politics, a passion for language, and a healthy amount of insightful reading – including Liberal Fascism by Jonah Goldberg and Hitler’s Monsters by Eric Kurlander ­– all gave depth and dark reality to a world of wild imagination. But where would I be without William Shakespeare and Edgar Allan Poe.

Synopsis

With a contemporary blend of Socratic dialogue and political satire, and fused with supernatural allegory, The Last Crucible is a dystopian caricature of the future. When two warring authoritarian States, the Union and the Confederates, are ruled by equally dogmatic dictatorships. Both factions are corrupted by divisions vying for uniquely nefarious agendas.

At the centre of this chaos is the former Union agent, John C. Rhodes. John ends up on a brutal and bloody path of discovery. He is no hero, no saint and no deliverer—a bad man who unwillingly becomes the champion for the force of good. But John must first contend his greatest adversary: himself.

Along the way, John stacks up an array of scars, enemies and dead bodies as he struggles with the monster inside him. While unlocking the secrets of a world he wants no part of. For who could ever become the hero of the people, if he has not first overcome his own failings?

Chapter One

For the Past and the Future

All the monsters of our nightmares are real, but they are not just confined to the night.

A young man sprints through the snow-draped woods. It’s freezing cold and in the early hours of the morning. The deathly cold is not what he fears. The leaf-bereft and seemingly lifeless trees are an ominous portent of the evil that pursues him.

He pants but he is extremely fit, well trained and not accustomed to fear. Then again, he’s never been pursued by an enemy like this.

Our nightmares are the manifestations of our unconscious fears. But what came first: the fear, or the knowledge of the fearful thing?

The young man knew his pursuer and that is precisely why he feared it so deeply, in such a visceral way. Fear is what drove him. And fear is what hunted him.

He stops by a tree and looks back. He sees nothing. His fear deceives him, the shadows seem to move. He squints his eyes to try and see what he knows is there.

He can’t see his predators and he must continue. He turns to keep running. His foot catches a raised root hidden by the blanket of snow. He falls face down.

He cannot delay. He shakes it off, pushes himself up, then something beckons him. Something beckons to him and it chills his blood. He turns and looks at the tree he was just at.

A dark figure emerges. A man dressed in black. His eyes are hollow and lifeless. He grimaces. His yellowed teeth shine in the moonlight. Beside him is a thirteen-year-old boy, pleasant-looking but indifferent.

Please, the young man begs, I just want to leave. I won’t tell anyone. Please.

The man dressed in black looks into the shadows, out of which emanates a deep guttural animal growl. The young man flinches. He knows what lurks in the dark—an evil akin to the man dressed in black. But it’s an evil submissive to the man.

No. Please no, the young man’s voice shakes showing the fear that he knows what’s there. He looks at the thirteen-year-old boy, Caleb, please. Don’t let him. You can stop him. Please Caleb.

The boy’s eyes are caring, but his face is hard. His nonchalance is a mask he wears to keep himself alive.

The man dressed in black speaks, There’s no mercy. For anyone. All flesh is food! And with a flick of his hand, the beast in the shadows launches forward and mauls the young man. The sound of its teeth tearing his flesh and crushing his bones is terrifying, even more so is the gargled sound of the young man crying out in agony. In his dying moments, screaming for help, the last words he calls out are, Please Caleb!

The man dressed in black chuckles to himself, then turns and walks away. Caleb stood still for a moment, watching the dismembered corpse of his friend as the beast chewed on it. The lifeless body twitches and shakes as it is tugged and lumps of flesh are torn off. Caleb slowly releases a painful breath of remorse, then he too turns and walks away.

All right then, I will tell you my story. I’ll tell it to you as I remember it, not like the versions where I’m the hero or the villain, the criminal or the martyr. I’ll tell it because it ran parallel to history, the true story. Let the telling of the one serve as an education in the other.

We live in such strange and uncertain times. Little did I know how strange things would become or how strange things already were. Nor could I have foreseen how the unimaginable and unpredictable were, in fact, reality.

I stood staring at a statue. It was like any other public statue: obscenely oversized, more shameless political propaganda and graphically violent.

It portrayed a group of Union Marines killing a Confederate Soldier. The lead Marine stood over the writhing victim with his boot on the Confederate Soldier’s throat. Another Marine knelt beside the torso of the Confederate Soldier and thrust a knife into him. A third Marine swung his rifle across the Confederate Soldier’s legs, breaking them. The small plaque in front of it simply read: The Glorious Dead.

It wasn’t the brutal nature of the scene that intrigued me, but the sharp realistic looks on their faces. The second two Marines had sadistic grimaces as they set about satisfying their bloodlust. The Confederate Soldier had the tormented gape of petrified agony. But it was the haughty and callous smirk of the lead Marine as he gazed into the distance with an inhumane satisfaction that twisted my stomach. I had seen that look before. The look that life was dispensable in the service of the State.

No one knew who had really won between the Union and the Confederacy. But everyone knew who had lost—the common people.

My attention was drawn away by the presence of a six-year-old boy. He was one of about a dozen on a school trip. Their teacher pulled up beside me and I listened for a moment as she extolled the virtues of serving the Union, the State, the Erde-Self and our glorious saviour, Chancellor Clayton Devereaux.

I slowly moved away with a stony patriotic smile and a glassy look of indifference in my eyes. Which I then presented to the E.Y.E.S. on the wall behind me. E.Y.E.S. are officially known as the ‘Electro-bio-examiners for Your Enduring Safety system’. The State launched them as the ‘E.Y.E.S. System’, a security system to prevent crime in public places. Each set of E.Y.E.S. has retinal scanners and facial recognition technology to identify each passer-by. Biological and chemical detectors for diseases and explosives. Infra-red, ultra-sonic and radio-wave sensors for abnormal brain-waves, prohibited speech or seditious behaviour.

They recorded crime in parks, subway stations or in workplaces to help prosecutors gain a quick conviction. It wasn’t long after that, that the State removed the right to defence counsel. Then E.Y.E.S. were placed in schools, universities, restaurants, gyms, cafes and supermarkets to detect subversive activity, speech or behaviour. Finally, they were placed in homes, kitchen appliances, TV’s and bedrooms supposedly to control energy consumption and to deter domestic violence, child abuse and home-grown terrorism. But the tens of thousands who disappeared for speaking out against the Union Party, or who even pursed their lips during a parade or campaign speech would tell another story.

As I walked away from the statue, I let the next five E.Y.E.S. see a happy and patriotic citizen. I had learnt that skill early in life. But there was another pair of eyes that I needed to contend with. A human pair of eyes. She was all of thirteen and already her eyes were ruthless and hard. At first it was her shrill voice that got my attention.

You, citizen, she barked.

I turned and saw her standing on a two feet high ledge in the wall. On either side of her was a heavily armed Droon. She was a pretty little thing.

State your business, she demanded.

She was an aggressive and loyal subject. And before I saw the pin on her coat, I could tell she was a Blue Eagle—the Union Youth Brigade. It was standard for kids even as young as ten to go on Public Service Duty with the Droons. But the Blue Eagles were the nasty ones. Future Enquisitors, I always thought. Career henchmen of the Union.

I approached her. I took a longer than necessary look at the Blue Eagle pin on her coat, to make sure she saw that I had seen it. So she knew that I knew what she was.

Well, citizen, I’m about to catch a shuttle. The State is sending me on a long journey, I said, smiling at her.

I looked at her pleasant face. She was someone’s daughter. She could have been mine. I’m sure at some stage someone had loved her.

Don’t patronise me! she snarled. I asked you a question.

I sized her up. What a little shit. My blood boiled.

I glanced at her two lackeys. Their fingers steadily caressing the triggers of their battle rifles.

Before I could reply, I was drowned out by the stomping of jack-boots. I looked sideways to see a unit of ten Knights of the Temple marching in formation of two columns. They’re easily recognisable with their black tunics and the white schutzstaffel on the front.

As they marched bystanders stopped, turned and cheered or gave the obligatory Union Party salute. No one dared disrespect a Knight, or a Droon, or an Enquisitor, or any agent or symbol of the Union.

Beside them an eleventh man marched. Their squad leader. He was a scrawny and gaunt man, with a pale complexion and deep-set dark eyes. It was a familiar face. I looked at him and he looked right back at me. As he recognised me, he nodded and saluted, Hail!

Instead of the traditional salute of flat hand, palm out, to the brow. It was the Union Party salute, flat hand, palm down, across the chest with the forefinger lightly touching the left shoulder. I acknowledged his salute accordingly.

Then he marched on. His cold eyes searching the crowd for a potential victim. His disdain for the common person was palpable. It was standard issue with Knights of the Temple of Enquisition—after all, they were weaned on it.

I turned back to little miss Blue Eagle. Her demeanour had suddenly changed. She smiled.

That will be all, citizen, she said softly but clearly. Travel safe in the name of the Chancellor. May you glorify your Erde-Self.

I will, was all I said.

And I carried on walking.

I walked about five hundred feet before the tightness in my chest eased. I had had enough of the claustrophobic, suffocating and controlling life of the Union. There was nothing good about it. It was sour, bitter and sickeningly sweet—and my body, heart and mind rejected every facet of it. I just wanted to watch it burn.

I was on my designated platform, but still too early for my shuttle. I found myself gazing at a LED-billboard. It was promoting this year’s ‘Stars and Stripes Race’. In between the advertorials ran government messages:

Capitalism is theft and harms the poor.

Mother Erde keeps us all in the State.

Loyalty to the State is Freedom.

Mother Erde is the State.

The ‘Stars and Stripes Race’ was a cross-territorial, space-sailing event held every two years. It lasted thirty days. It pitted the Union against the Confederacy, and the Colonials against the both of them.

It was the only time that the three factions officially met. Unofficially, it was when all three conducted all manner of business, trade, prisoner exchanges, and as well as inter and intra diplomatic manoeuvring. All under the auspices of the race. The fact that the race spanned about twenty planets—which always changed depending on what business needed to be done and where—and it crossed the border numerous times, was just a happy coincidence in the name of universal goodwill. Or as the Union claimed, for the propagation of the Erde-Geist.

Nonetheless, it was exciting and fantastic to watch. A brilliant distraction which both the Union and Confederate governments used to their advantage. That’s why I thought, why shouldn’t I?

It was the reason I chose to leave at this time. The journey would take thirty days, precisely the duration of the race. It was to be my cover.

I looked down at my hands. They were shaking slightly. Nerves. They bore no resemblance to the deeds they had undertaken during the course of my life. Looking at them, they revealed no clue to their past. But what I planned for them, they certainly would look very different in the future.

As I stood there rethinking my plan, a hand gently rested on my shoulder. I turned and saw Amy. She was puffing. Being eight months pregnant had made waddling over the platform very difficult. She smiled a pained smile.

I’m glad you made it, I said.

I almost didn’t. Someone came to see me, she said, drawing deep breaths.

Who was it? I asked.

Ah, no one you’d care for, she replied.

I could see she was struggling to stand, so I took her by the hand and we sat on a nearby bench. It was the last time I would be comfortable for quite a while.

We spoke for a few minutes before my shuttle arrived. Then we said goodbye to each other. It was a sad farewell. Not because it was a farewell, but because Amy was distracted. My leaving was not her main concern.

As I boarded, I paid the Indulgence Tax, for the sanctification of my Erde-Self. A tithe for Mother Erde for the toll of space travel.

That was the last time I saw my wife, I said.

Your ex-wife, Mr Rhodes, the Chief Prosecutor said in a pejorative tone, as though to imply our divorce would be motive for me. She was a lady that enjoyed her job.

Yes, my ex-wife, I continued. And she was very much alive.

When you allegedly last saw her, your ex-wife, she was supposedly alive and well, the Chief Prosecutor recapped, as she meandered back towards me.

Yes, I said sternly.

Alive and well, and eight months pregnant, she continued.

Yes, I said more softly.

Alive, well, or well enough for a woman eight months pregnant, when you abandoned her, on her own, on Earth, while you went to Desertorium. A Colonial planet, she said.

Yes, I answered. I could see the picture she was painting.

Mr Rhodes, how long does it take to get to Desertorium? she asked.

A month, I said.

A month, she repeated. And what if your heavily pregnant wife needed you? It would take a month to get back. If you ever intended on coming back, she remarked.

I never intended on coming back, I said.

The crowded court became rowdy with disapproving murmurs. I searched the room. I looked at the three supposed ‘judges’. I looked particularly at Grand Master Enquisitor Robespiere. He had a haughty and nonchalant look, for which he was renown. I looked behind them to the orchestrator of this charade, another of the judges, Supreme Chancellor Clayton Devereaux. It was difficult to tell what the Chancellor was thinking behind his scarred and disfigured face.

Our intention was for Amy to join me on Desertorium, I continued. We were going to leave the Union.

The murmurs erupted into outbursts.

Calls of Traitor! and Heretic! filled the Star Chamber.

Of course, neither the Grand Master Enquisitor nor Chancellor Devereaux made any attempt to calm or quieten the crowd. And the claque was performing their role impeccably.

It was Chief Prosecutor Finster that brought the audience to quiet with a subtle gesturing of her hands.

So you were planning on leaving the Union? she asked. The very Union that had sustained you, your Erde-Self, with employment.

Yes, I replied.

Tell me, Mr Rhodes, she continued, what was your function in the Union?

It’s staggering how enormous and opulent the Temple of Enquisition building is. Most people aren’t allowed in unless taken in for questioning by a Knight of the Temple, or an Enquisitor. Even then you only go in the base section. That first one hundred floors—which they call ‘The Basement’—the square bottom section, is just offices, interrogation rooms, holding cells, surveillance monitoring rooms and so on. Where one million Squires work endlessly. Squires, huh, fancy word for administrators. Slaving away for one hundred thousand Knights of the Temple. Another fancy term for detective…

The Enquisitors have the spire or tower section as theirs. All one thousand of them. It’s a massive column of dark rooms, private offices, libraries of confidential information and contraband material, the Enquisitor’s accommodation, the Temple of Knowledge Library and the Enquisitor training facility.

Although, the Grand Enquisitors have free access to all of that.

The Grand Enquisitors have the lower part of the sceptre section which is above the spire. A mere one hundred Grand Enquisitors to oversee, investigate, judge, execute the sensitive dealings of the Union. Besides the nobility and ruling class, the Grand Enquisitors are the only people to move freely anywhere in Union territory.

The middle section of the sceptre belongs to the ten Dukes of Enlightenment. Simply figure-head positions, awarded to loyal Union nobility. While the top section, with views over all of Jerusalem, the greater Levant, and the sea, that was for the three Grand Master Enquisitors, their maids, aides, butlers, chefs and private guard. And among other things, the great gold and marble ball room. Where they knight and induct Enquisitors. That’s we were. The building is so massive, such an eye sore and so extremely opulent that the common people call it the abomination of desolation.

The elite doesn’t have to travel up through the base and the tower. There are landing docks at the top. So the Grand Masters don’t have to mingle with the Knights below and all the unsavoury characters brought into The Basement.

When one of the Grand Masters holds an event, then the lime-light-lizard Chancellor Devereaux can’t help but come and bask. I remember that night well. It was the night that I met Amy.

I was standing with a group of Liaisons when the Liaison Secretary General Winters brought someone over to us.

Baron de Gaule, I want you to meet John Rhodes, he said.

Mister Rhodes, you’re a Liaison I take it? the baron asked.

A professional juggler, actually, just here for your amusement, my lord, I said, taking his hand.

Oh, how novel, he remarked as he loosened his grip, wanting to withdraw his hand. But I held on to it.

I turned it over and examined the insignia ring on his middle finger. It was inexplicably extravagantly decorated. In the middle of the standard Union swastika encircled by the crescent moon, was a small black spot between many jewels. It was his BCC micro-chip. All the nobility have insignia rings. The Union emblem is mandatory. But the surrounding symbols were unique to each baron, earl, marquees, viscount, or duke and their house.

Are all jugglers so intrigued by jewellery? the baron asked with a condescending tone.

In our profession, we don’t come across such things, I said.

That’s nice, he smirked. Just make sure you’re only looking and that’s all, he commanded. Then under his breath, he mumbled, Filth!

But I heard him.

Don’t worry, my lord, I said, the charity that brought me here tonight explained the rules clearly to me. And I assure you I was properly vetted.

He didn’t care for it.

The baron turned to Secretary General Winters. I thought this was supposed to be a classy affair.

It is, baron, General Winters said. John Rhodes is playing with you. He is one of our best Liaisons.

The baron turned back to me. His face was a mix of anger and embarrassment, tinged with confusion. Then I could see that his eyes spotted the Odal Rune pin on my jacket—the symbol of the Union Liaisons High Office.

I wanted you to meet him, baron, General Winters continued, because John helped us recently move a few shipments. Shipments of great value. And all at a great risk.

Suddenly, the baron’s dull eyes widened with delight. He grabbed my hand back shaking it vigorously. My apologies, Mister Rhodes. I should have known.

Baron, I said, if you had known who I was, I wouldn’t be very good at what I do.

Yes, very true, he nodded like a bobble-head clown at a fair, as though he had any idea.

Unexpectedly, from behind me came a very familiar voice.

I’m always dubious when barons speak of the truth as though it’s something that they’re familiar with, said the voice.

I turned to see Supreme Chancellor Clayton Devereaux. He was a handsome and debonair man. On his arm was a beautiful blonde lady who seemed quite at home among such company.

Following him were two Grand Enquisitors. One was older and more sophisticated in appearance, with thick silver hair. The other, younger and more staunch looking, with a short military style haircut.

My liege, the baron said, fawning.

As the other Liaisons and myself recognised him, we too gave our obeisance, Hail Chancellor Devereaux.

It is such an honour to see you again, the baron continued as he bowed obsequiously.

General Winters clicked his heels together in a military salute.

Now I know you’re being untruthful, baron, the Chancellor joked. The baron de Gaule and Secretary General Winters I know, he continued, the charming man of the people that he is. Then he turned to me. But who is this strapping young man?

The General began, This is Senior Liaison and High Officer—

One of our finest heroes and a masterful operator! the baron interrupted. This is the fearless…

The Chancellor raised his hand to silence the annoying baron.

He looked me right in the eye and calmly asked, Your name please?

I extended my hand. John Rhodes, sir.

His grip was firm and warm. Not like the wet fish handshakes of so many in the aristocracy. Nor like the overpowering-trying-to-dominate grips of those in the service.

Well John, if you don’t mind me calling you John, may I introduce to you Amy Fairchild. And this is Grand Enquisitor Uwe Gurven, head of my personal security. And this old fox is Grand Enquisitor Jaqal Celon, perhaps the greatest detective the galaxy has ever known, the Chancellor said.

It is a pleasure, John, Grand Enquisitor Jaqal Celon said in a rich French accent as we shook hands. However, the Chancellor is being overly generous.

I looked at Grand Enquisitor Uwe Gurven with my hand extended. He kept his hands firmly at his sides as he blatantly stared at me.

Please forgive Grand Enquisitor Gurven. He has many skills, the Chancellor began, but social grace is clearly not one of them.

There was an awkward moment as Grand Enquisitor Gurven just stood and stared at me.

Then everyone moved to carry on, took another sip of their drinks and began light conversation, all as though they had seen Gurven’s rudeness before.

All but me. I stared back with a playful but provocative smile. I could tell instantly that he didn’t like me and I knew why.

I have a mark on me, an air about me, that to the conventional straight-laced die-hard boy scout types, must seem like reckless arrogance. In his mind, I was dangerous and unpredictable.

He was right.

It was something that makes one a successful Liaison.

And besides, there was something about Uwe-stuck-up-Gurven that baited me. So I had to.

Is your suit too tight? I asked him.

He was a little surprised anyone hadn’t balked at his stiff stare. He looked at Chancellor Devereaux who nodded, giving him permission to engage with me.

No, he grunted.

So why is it you don’t talk? Huh, if it’s not too tight, then why are you so uptight? It can’t be your job. I mean, how hard is it to do what you do? I said. This room is filled with top-level military and political personnel. Up on every balcony, at every exit, and at every vantage point is a handful of personally chosen Knights of the Temple. In fact there’s an entire 200-kilometre radius completely controlled by Union droons and marines. So I wonder, what makes his token bodyguard so tense.

Gurven searched the crowd. He was frustrated by me.

Forgive me, Chancellor, he said, but I simply distrust Liaisons.

You forget, Grand Enquisitor, General Winters countered, John is on our side.

That’s just it, General, I don’t believe Liaisons know what side they are on, Uwe said. They have lied, deceived and betrayed so much that they can’t remember if they wear the Union or Confederate uniform, he said, snarling at me.

The awkward silence returned.

Come now, Uwe, Chancellor Devereaux laughed, John Rhodes is a proven patriot who has done more for the State than any other living Senior Liaison. I think we can afford to allow ourselves to trust just one of Secretary General Winter’s men. They can’t all be Enquisitors, otherwise who would we send out of State to deal with the Confederates? Lord Marshal Rasputin’s Lykos?

Everyone laughed.

They toasted Chancellor Devereaux’s joke, even Enquisitor Gurven smiled.

Then it settled.

I could see Grand Enquisitor Jaqal about to start another conversation with the baron. But I wasn’t finished. That arrogant streak wasn’t going to let Uwe Gurven have the last word.

Unfortunately, Chancellor, I interjected, Enquisitor Gurven is correct.

Silence again. A confused silence.

About what? the Chancellor asked.

It was only a matter of days ago, I said, while I was in the heart of Confederate territory on Boston 5. I was wearing a Colonial Major’s uniform collecting something from a Confederate Commander for the baron here. And paying for it with a stack of Pirate titanium bullion I had stolen from a Pirate Captain whose throat I slit the week before. I was just about to complete the transaction when I remembered something.

I paused.

Well, what was it? Grand Enquisitor Jaqal Celon asked in eager anticipation.

I’ll tell you. If you, or any of you can answer a question for me, I said.

What’s the question? Chancellor Devereaux asked.

What’s the average life-span of a Senior Union Liaison on Boston 5? I asked.

They all stopped. Some looked at the others.

Two weeks, Jaqal said.

I shook my head.

Two days, the baron said.

I shook my head.

Seven minutes and ten seconds, said Amy Fairchild.

I looked at her and smiled. I liked her.

That’s correct, I said.

There was a surprised commotion as they reflected on the answer.

Now tell me what you remembered, Amy said.

I really liked her.

I remembered how the Confederates taught their Commanders how to hide thin, eight-inch razors, made of undetectable porcelain, I said.

They all looked at me with varying degrees of surprise or confusion.

Let me show you, I continued.

I stepped forward quickly and ran my fingers up Uwe’s left upper arm, along the military dress parallel stripes, or hash marks.

I caught the butt of the blade and pulled it out. I held it out for all to see. Uwe’s stern look turned to fear. He backed up, knowing that he was caught and surrounded. Then he bolted in a panic.

I held the blade up and then flicked it at him. It hit him in the back of the neck.

He staggered and clutched at the blade protruding from his neck as it seeped blood. Enquisitor Jaqal reached him to drag him out of the room.

Jaqal! Chancellor Devereaux called out, bringing the room to a complete stand still. Where are you taking him?

Enquisitor Jaqal stopped. He looked at Chancellor Devereaux. Out of the room, my lord, he said calmly.

Why? Chancellor Devereaux asked bluntly, as though he shouldn’t have to ask. This is the People’s Democratic Union. Are you taking him out to shoot him?

The great hall was silent. Motionless.

Enquisitor Jaqal hesitated. His eyes searched the room for a moment.

Yes, my lord, Jaqal replied.

Chancellor Devereaux emptied his glass in one draw. Then he sharply looked at Enquisitor Jaqal. There’s no need to take him out of the room for that, the Chancellor said coldly.

Enquisitor Jaqal nodded obediently then pulled his sidearm.

Amy stood by the window watching the men playing polo. The sun was warm and the summer heat had brought out a wide array of colours in the ladies’ dresses and fascinators.

Amy smiled. She enjoyed high society. But she stood alone in the executive lounge of the country club as she waited. For a brief moment, she forgot who she was waiting for and why.

You always had an infantile enjoyment of such frivolities, he said as he stood behind her.

She knew his voice and her happy face fell as she heard his pejorative tone. She turned and faced him.

Before her stood a serious and stony-faced man dressed in the ecclesiastical attire of a Grand Master Enquisitor. With his thick black hair, cold eyes and Romanesque features, Grand Master Enquisitor Maximillien de Robespiere was intimidating.

Hello father, Amy gently said, ever-hopeful to elicit a kind response.

He ignored her and sat down.

How are things progressing with your husband? he bluntly asked.

She sighed to herself and sat down.

It’s not that easy to simply convince him to leave Union territory, she explained. Not without raising his suspicion. Perhaps if you told me why you want him out of the Union. Or is it simply that you want him away from Chancellor Devereaux?

Grand Master Enquisitor Robespiere’s eyes were hard and without feeling. He glared at her.

You disappoint me, Amy, he coldly remarked. If I cannot trust you to carry out this simple task, how can I trust you with the knowledge of my designs?

She looked away from his gaze.

Forgive me father, I know not what I do, she said, holding herself together.

He looked at her for a moment. Then he looked outside the country club window to the crowd and the men playing polo.

How is Magdalene? Amy asked.

She flourishes as the viscount’s wife, he replied. She has now given him a second son. Grand Master Enquisitor Robespiere smiled. That’s it.

Amy looked at him unsure of his meaning.

You shall have a child with John, the Grand Master Enquisitor declared.

Amy’s face fell to a look of horror.

Please don’t ask me to have a child with him, she pleaded.

You will do as you’re told! he snapped.

His eyes squinted, his lips pursed and his face clenched with resentment.

You’ll damn well do as the State requires of you. Even if you have to prostitute yourself in the process, he continued, leaning in towards her. I’m so sick of your complaining. You’ll do whatever I tell you. So you’ll have a child to this husband. And you dare not question it again!

He stood as though to leave.

He looked down at her. When I offered you to the Chancellor for this mission, I thought you might one day redeem yourself to me, he said. That perhaps you might once again bear my name, as my daughter.

Her eyes welled with tears.

Yes, Grand Master Enquisitor. As you wish, she forced the words out. I am but a humble servant of the State. Then she couldn’t help herself. The State? Is that Chancellor Devereaux or the glory of the State! What State are we talking about? Who is the State?

I am the State! he declared in anger. I, Grand Master Enquisitor Robespiere, am the State! then he paused. We are all the State, he softly said, re-gathering himself.

She also stood to leave.

The child, my child, she said, it will be your grandchild. Although you do not care for me, hopefully you might show him or her some compassion.

And she stepped away from him.

No Amy, he barked. It will be a part of the State.

He walked right up to her, You would do well to remember your duty, for the past and the future.

Chapter Two

For the Secrets We Keep

Chief Prosecutor Finster slowly circled me, like a menacing predator taunting its prey. Her face was beautiful, but her black heartless eyes and pale skin were disconcerting. They held a distracting allure: seductive yet terrifying. Her black hair and black gown made her appear quite unnaturally reclusive and ecclesiastical.

So Mr Rhodes, she pressed, what was your job for the Union?

I was a Senior Liaison, I replied.

I could see looks of mistrust and disdain on people’s faces. The job had a reputation.

Did you ever kill anyone, Mr Rhodes? she asked with false sincerity. Like asking a chemist if he ever sold drugs, or a prostitute if she ever had sex. That is to say, other than your acts of terrorism against the State, for which you stand here accused. Did you ever kill anyone as a Liaison?

Yes, I said bluntly. There was no point denying the obvious.

Heads shook in feigned disapproval.

"Did you ever have to