Chapter 1
We must await the proper moment to reveal our incredible secret, when all is in readiness. If we come out too early, an eruption of fear and suppression will destroy our movement.
—Report of the Commission on the She-Apostles
February 7, 2034 . . .
An orderly queue of seventeen robed women moved across the cobblestone plaza toward a weathered stone church. Second in the procession, a stocky black woman, Dixie Lou Jackson, heard the ancient tower bell ringing, a melancholy throb carried on a cool afternoon breeze. She shivered. It was winter, in the Macedonian mountains of northern Greece.
Around them rose the other structures of Monte Konos, a secluded mountaintop monastery that had been abandoned during Turkish raids in 1827. For centuries before that, it had been a sanctuary for a form of chauvinist monasticism in which only men were permitted to participate. In all that time, no women had been allowed to set foot on Monte Konos, not even female animals.
Of course, all that was changed now.
At the church entrance Dixie Lou and her superior, Amy Angkor-Billings, stepped into shadows on one side while their companions filed past them through arched double doors. Each door featured a large, carved Byzantine cross. Nervously, Dixie Lou looked up at the cerulean sky, wondering if an enemy might detect them here with an orbital surveillance satellite. If that happened, the consequences would be disastrous.
She hurried inside with the others.
* * *
The tall, broad-shouldered man moved through the underground corridor with athletic grace and power, a deportment that stemmed as much from his intense attitude as from physical prowess. Vice Minister Styx Tertullian wore wire-rimmed glasses and carried two jet-ball pens in his shirt pocket. His straight blond hair was overly long, so that it fell around his eyes.
He passed the door to the bustling, all-male secretarial pool, then continued on through the plex-bubble of the communications pod and into the honeycomb-walled concrete and steel office core, the most heavily protected section of the bombproof office complex. The air filtration system in the facility had been designed to keep the interior atmosphere clean in case of military attack, but dust still got through from a sandstorm that was raging outside. The equipment had never functioned properly, just one of numerous construction problems and cost overruns in this four-year old network of concealed subterranean structures, in eastern Washington state.
As Styx approached, a guard in a silver-and-black Bureau of Ideology uniform nodded to him. Styx stopped at the guard station and pressed his face against the cool surface of an identity plate. Lavender light washed across him, reading his epidermal cell patterns and retinas, while imparting a slight tingle to the skin. He felt a pin prick as a DNA sample was taken from his cheek, and seconds later the clearance bell rang, permitting him to continue on his way. No person, not even the Minister himself, was exempt from such procedures.
This morning the Vice Minister had important news for his boss’s ears only, and was hurrying to make his report. Styx’s ear-implanted phone went off, making his skin tingle. A subconscious link told him it was Minister Nelson Culpepper himself, exactly the person he was going to see anyway. Seconds after the call, Styx walked into the Minister’s opulent reception area, where an electronic secretary registered his presence and transmitted the information to the inner office.
“Come in, come in,” a voice boomed across the intercom system.
Styx hurried into the office, and blurted out in his high-pitched, whining voice, “I have exciting news, Minister!”
But as he entered he saw a holo-projection of the broad-faced President of the United States, Lowell Markwether, dancing in the air in front of Culpepper’s desk. With a crafty smile, Culpepper motioned for Styx to take a seat, which he did, in one of the deep armchairs off to one side.
At the press of a button, Styx caused a cup of steaming hot coffee to pop out of a slot in the table next to him. It was the best coffee he had ever tasted, a blend of the finest beans in the world, brewed through enhanced methods that produced a cup of java that tasted just as good as it smelled. He waited for it to cool down.
A fat man with a youthful face, the Minister looked like an oversized child. He wore an impeccable silver-and-black uniform with gold buttons, each of them a Christian cross. The flag of the Bureau of Ideology hung on a pole behind him, a silver banner with a black cross in the center.
“I need more funding,” Culpepper said to the President. “Another four billion dollars.”
“Four billion more?” the holo-form responded. “How many favors do you think I owe you?”
“This is a time of special need, my friend, and I promise a quid pro quo when you’re up for reelection. We need more military equipment and intelligence resources. Our female foes have been—mmm—quite troublesome.”
The President’s holo-form faded to half-strength, and Styx saw him leaning to one side, his lips moving but not projecting sound to the distant BOI office. Undoubtedly, Markwether was conferring with his ever-present older brother, Zack, a US Army colonel who was in charge of White House security, a man not visible in the holo-projection of the virtual meeting. Intelligence reports indicated Zack Markwether, while brilliant and in many respects more qualified than his brother for high office, was not well-liked by the White House staff, in part because of jealousy over his access to the President, but in larger measure due to Zack’s inability to get along with high-level White House staffers. He had an arrogant way of swaggering around in his uniform and white gloves, sometimes even wearing aviator-style sunglasses indoors to prevent people from seeing the direction of his gaze. He was, to say the least, eccentric.
In a few moments, President Markwether’s beefy holo-image brightened, and he twitched nervously as he stood up straight. “Coming up with that much money isn’t easy, after the billions we’ve already obtained for you. We can only skim so much, you know.”
“Get it done anyway,” Culpepper demanded, “and don’t waste my time with weak-kneed excuses. Pull strings, knock heads, threaten to kill their families if you have to. Whatever it takes. I don’t care how you get the money, just get it, and do it fast.”
The President shook his head in dismay.
“Don’t let me down,” Culpepper said, in the most ominous of tones. Abruptly he ended the virtual meeting, and the holo-projection faded, as if intense sunlight had burned through a layer of fog.
“He’ll get the money for us if he ever wants to run for office again,” Culpepper said. He grinned, revealing cigarette-stained teeth that seemed out of character with his otherwise spotless appearance.
The ultra-conservative BOI was not relying on any one source of income. They were in constant contact with wealthy right-wing investors around the world, people who did not want the radical, upstart women to make any more headway. Through its web of carefully tailored relationships, the BOI was able to fund its own paramilitary and political operations in secrecy. In fact, the public had no idea that this powerful group even existed.
“I’ve got some nice dirt on President Markwether if you ever want to use it,” Styx said. “On the campaign funds he diverted for his own personal use, and other irregularities.”
“I thought I told you to get rid of that stuff,” Culpepper said. “We run an upstanding Christian organization. Trading favors is one thing. Blackmail is quite another.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll delete the files from our data base.”
“Don’t make me say it again. I don’t like to repeat myself.”
“You can count on me, sir. I’ll take care of it.” Actually, Styx intended to conceal the information, burying it in deep computer encryptions where no one could find it. He had gone to a great deal of trouble to build files on a lot of important people, and he was certain that they would prove to be valuable one day. He even had one on Culpepper himself, who claimed to be so squeaky clean. What a hypocrite!
Styx sipped his coffee, waiting for an opportunity to discuss another matter he had on his mind.
Culpepper coughed from sandstorm dust, and with a flurry of expletives that would make a longshoreman blush, he cursed the building’s air filtration system. He paused to take a drink of water from a bottle, while his subordinate spoke quickly, excitedly: “Sir, I have incredible news!”
With a scowl, Culpepper thumped the bottle down on his desk. “It’ll keep. I have a more important matter to discuss with you.”
“But Minister, this is something you—” Styx fell silent, after detecting a look of disapproval on the fat man’s face.
“Don’t forget. I called you here.”
“Of course. I’m sorry.” The Vice Minister stared at a wall-displayed projection of the storm topside, while sand pummeled the rural Bureau-controlled town up there.
“You know how I feel about United Women of the World,” Culpepper said, his voice raspy, as it sometimes became when he was upset. “I’d like to blow them off the face of the earth.”
“That’s exactly what I came to discuss with you, sir! The Legions of Eve, those shameless sinners in silk and chiffon. Just wait until you hear what I—” Styx fell silent again, shifted uncomfortably on his feet.
“Blast those harlots,” Minister Culpepper said.
The UWW—run by rabidly militant females—was the Bureau’s archenemy in every country on the planet, waging behind-the-scenes battles that the blissfully ignorant general public never even heard about. The UWW’s secrecy was obtained through similar methods to those utilized by the BOI, and it was reported that the troublesome women forced all personnel to take oaths of secrecy and to undergo unbreakable, deep hypnosis—thus preventing information from leaking. Some sort of witchery, Styx thought; one of many proofs that the UWW was in league with the devil. In any event, their Svengali methods didn’t work entirely. The BOI, through its contacts, knew some of the bizarre, heretical acts they were committing, stirring up susceptible women, claiming certain passages in the Bible were the result of political machinations, and were not true gospel.
“Listen, Styx. I’ve got a line on Billings, a way we can get to her.”
Styx caught his breath. This was indeed more significant than his own report. The Minister was referring to the diabolical Chairwoman of the UWW, Amy Angkor-Billings herself.
“That’s excellent, sir,” Styx said.
Culpepper struggled with his raspy voice. He started to speak, then cleared his throat several times and drank more water. “We’ll have to move quickly,” he said, regaining his vocal ability at last. “Tomorrow she’s leaving for the Greek city of Salonika to meet with a doctor.”
“She’s ill?” Styx asked.
“No, the doctor—Katherine Pangalos—is a wealthy eccentric, and according to intelligence reports she’s a big UWW contributor. Billings is probably going there to pick up a hefty check.”
“Greece is unstable,” Styx said. It was a phrase the BOI used, meaning the organization didn’t have much political influence on a particular government, and it was suspected that the UWW did.
“Unstable, yes,” Culpepper said, “making what I have in mind a bit more difficult. But we have guerrilla forces in Macedonia, the same people we used in Turkey and the Ukraine.”
“Ah yes, our legendary Night Fighters.”
“Exactly. I want you to mobilize them for a covert operation.”
Styx: “Mmmm. To assassinate someone?”
The fat man smiled. “You’re quick, Styx. You’ll make a fine Minister one day.” Then he asked, “Now what is it you wanted to talk about?”
“One of Billings’ closest associates, Dixie Lou Jackson.”
“The black witch?”
“Uh huh. As luck would have it she’s vulnerable, too. Before joining the UWW she conducted a goddess circle in a Seattle suburb, and now she’s going back for a guest appearance at a related group.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow evening. It’s in a private home owned by an associate, near Lake Washington.”
“That is interesting, and Styx, luck has nothing to do with it. God is moving the heretics into position for us.”
“For two commando attacks, sir?”
Culpepper nodded. “We’ll stage the Seattle raid from here. You lead it. Our Athens office will handle the other one.”
Styx’s narrow, bespectacled face grew warm with anticipated pleasure. Having been trained as a US Marine before joining the Bureau, he enjoyed using weapons and often participated in surprise raids. “Praise the Lord,” he intoned. “Demon blood will flow.”
* * *
140 miles west, in Seattle . . .
Within the privacy of her bedroom, surrounded by holo-photos taped to the walls, an auburn-haired teenager replayed her phone messages and heard the disturbing words again: “I’m gonna kill you for what you did, girl.”
Lori Vale didn’t recognize the muffled male voice that came through speakers in her ceiling, and no name had been left; but based upon what her friends were saying, she suspected who it was—Chad O’Kray—a twenty-year-old street punk who had provided her with a place to stay after she’d run away from home the month before. On probation for a drug offense, he’d been charged with a felony for harboring a runaway, since Lori was a minor. According to rumor, he’d been blaming her for his legal troubles, but she wasn’t sure why.
Hearing a door close downstairs and the familiar footsteps of her mother as she prepared to leave for work, Lori snapped her fingers to erase the message. The threat didn’t frighten her in the least, and she would take care of it herself.
* * *
Across the world, inside the centuries-old Greek church, Dixie Lou Jackson sat somberly with her fellow councilwomen, in a half-circle of black leather chairs. They watched Amy Angkor-Billings as the elegant woman took a seat in a high-back red leather chair facing them.
“Immense changes are in the wind,” Amy said, “a shift in the cosmos from male to female energy. The destructive forces of men are waning—”
On a table by Dixie Lou a computer screen was on, a coded Internet connection that linked them with United Women of the World contacts all over the world—cells run by women who were capable of activating secret paramilitary forces on short notice. Peripherally, she watched the screen scroll.
“Praise be to She-God!” the women intoned.
A petite Cambodian with a regal profile and narrow, slanted eyes, Amy had removed her dun-colored monk’s robe, revealing long, jet black hair secured in a pony tail by a golden clasp. As befitted her high position she wore a gold dress with the green-and-orange design of the UWW on her lapel—a design that merged the traditional Christian cross with a sword.
“As all of you know,” Amy said, “Dixie Lou and I will be away for several days on separate trips.”
“A prayer for your safety,” said Kaiulani Maheha, a large Hawaiian woman.
The councilwomen bowed their heads in silence for several moments and made cradling motions with their arms, as if holding babies. Then, in unison, they looked up.
On a high pedestal behind the council loomed the white marble statue of She-God, representing all the heroines of history, or “herstory,” as Amy preferred to call it. On the statue’s upturned palms rested the Sword of She-God, a magnificently tooled blade with a jeweled Christian cross for its hilt. Of unknown origin, it was the subject of legend in the UWW, and the organization’s most important religious artifact. It was a design repeated on banners draped around the inside of the ancient building, partially covering streaky gray-and-black walls. Dixie Lou smelled the musk odor of burning incense.
Some of the councilwomen still wore their robes—even with blouses and slacks beneath—because the dun robes, while lacking style, compensated for this inadequacy by offering warmth.
Dixie Lou blew on her hands and rubbed them together. The church’s heating system had not been working well, and was scheduled to be inspected the following day. She put the coldness out of her mind, an ability she had that enabled her to set aside pain and personal discomfort.
Glancing around, Dixie Lou noted that most of the councilwomen had lowered their eyes in deference to their Chairwoman, as if Amy were the She-God incarnate. Dixie Lou did not do that. As always she gazed with intelligent, dark brown eyes at the tiny Asian woman, looking steadily at her as if she were no more than any another female. Amy didn’t seem to mind, and had supported the promotion of Dixie Lou to number two in command.
Their all-important project was centered across the cobblestone plaza in the ancient Scriptorium Building, once occupied by monks for the copying of manuscripts. In that place the council had set up computers, recording equipment and the most accredited biblical scholars and linguists in the world, female and male, who toiled to compile an extraordinary, earthshaking new work.
At the moment, however, Dixie Lou had something else on her mind, a vivid, recurring image. Upon the internal screen of her memory appeared the face of a black man she had shot to death five years ago in Seattle, on a cold, rainy night. It was one of several justified killings she had committed in her lifetime. Now she recounted all of the violent episodes in her mind, as she sometimes did for enjoyment.
She caught her breath, because this time a strong new image dominated the others. She envisioned a shadow enshrouded room where people slept. In her right hand she held a knife, and she brought it down over and over, stabbing the sleepers. She smelled the metallic odor of their blood.
Suddenly her mind roiled and whirled in confusion—for she had never killed anyone in that manner.