“We will redouble our efforts to battle the legacy of hate that led to the murder of these fine People’s Security Force officers by racist hooligans!” Lieutenant Kessler said, her voice remarkably free of emotion. She was reading off of a 3x5 card.
Cannon turned to his side, expecting to whisper an incredulous “Hooligans?” to his friend Sergeant Dietrich, but Dietrich wasn’t there. He was gone, disappeared the night of the shootings. His family too – Cannon had driven by his locked-up, empty house at the edge of town. Probably over the border and away from all this.
It was tempting, but Cannon had grown up here. He knew these people. They were his people. And leaving them now just seemed wrong.
“There will be no mercy for those who disrupt the new order! We will never allow the hate we drove out when we expelled the racist states to return to our community!”
Our community. Cannon stopped himself from rolling his eyes. Kessler had never set foot in town until a few weeks ago. She went on.
“We will bring the criminals and those who sympathize with them to justice! And we are fortunate to have help in our mission by the People’s Volunteers.”
The PVs – a bunch of shitheads the government handed guns and let loose on uppity citizens. The night before, there had been a net call ordering all the deputies back to the headquarters. Once Cannon rolled in, he was ordered to stay. Then the phones started going crazy with calls. A bunch of People’s Volunteers had shown up on Main Street with AKs and started shooting into the air. Then they decided to shoot out a couple windows and beat the hell out of a couple citizens. When they got tired of that, they walked through some stores and took whatever they wanted.
And the deputies couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
Lieutenant Kessler had smiled as the remaining local deputies fielded the desperate phone calls. “This town needs to learn,” she said. The PSF officers, all out-of-towners, thought the whole situation hilarious.
Luckily, the PVs didn’t murder anyone, not this time at least. But that was hardly reassuring. Sooner or later.
Cannon quashed the urge to speak up, to tell the outsiders that these people could only be pushed so far. But that would be the end of his job, and then there would be one less local to protect the natives. Plus, they wouldn’t listen anyway.
Kessler went on with her eulogy for a couple minutes – it was entirely unmemorable – and then sat down. The priestess came back up front and led the crowd in an awkward acapella attempt at a Katy Perry song about girl power, even though the three dead officers – whose names were never mentioned – all identified as “male.”
“Are these song books approved?” asked Darcy Puig, the regional Inclusiveness Inspector. About 24 and a recent graduate of Notre Dame, where she had majored in Oppression Studies, she had come to Jasper’s First Baptist Church as part of her regular inspections of licensed religious organizations. She was squat and had dyed black hair cut in a bowl shape. A stainless steel spike protruded from her lower lip.
“We call that a ‘hymnal,’” answered Pastor Tim Bellman. “And I don’t understand the question. Do we have to get our hymnals approved now? I thought the People’s Republic’s constitution protected freedom of religion.”
“Well, it does,” she answered. “And you don’t have to get your church books approved, not yet.” She sounded disappointed.
“Well, that’s good to hear.”
Puig jotted some notes down on her computer pad, then looked up. “You know, a lot of churches are moving toward a more inclusive framework that puts aside the patriarchal and racist elements of a lot of old religious practices. You should think about it. I can email you some recommended Christian principles.”
“Thank you, but I think I know the tenets of my own religion, Ms. Puig.”
“And you are free to practice whatever things you choose to believe inside here in whatever way you want. But you need to understand that outside of here we believe in science and inclusiveness and diversity. And there’s no room for Jesus-based intolerance.”
“That sounds kind of like the opposite of diversity.”
“Mr. Bellman—”
“Pastor Bellman.”
She ignored his correction. “We are simply not going to allow any group to undercut the progress and evolution we are putting in place after breaking away from the racist states. If you refuse to cooperate, you need to understand that there will be a price.”
“So my congregation is free to practice its faith however it likes except when you disagree with it?”
“In a democracy, the people choose what’s allowed and what isn’t. And they have chosen not to allow hate, Pastor Bellman.”
“Are you done here?”
“I’m making a note about this,” she said firmly, typing into her pad. “But I’m done here for now.”
“Then go.”
“I will be back.”
“There’s the door. Don’t let it hit you on your ass on the way out.”
Puig frowned, then turned and walked through it without a word. Out the doorway, Bellman could see the sun was setting. And he wondered if those PV punks would be coming back again.
Turnbull saw a young, dumpy woman with a weird piercing stomp out of the sanctuary and down the stairs as he approached from the parking lot. She carried a computer pad and seemed to have the officious attitude of an aspiring bureaucrat. There was no weapon visible so Turnbull went to his default.
If he had to take her out, it would be one to the face with the Wilson .45 he carried in the small of his back. He smiled, all friendly-like.
The woman marched past him as if he wasn’t there. Turnbull continued up the steps and through the doors into the sanctuary.
A man in his early fifties was standing near the altar. He turned and faced Turnbull. Good bearing, relatively in shape, probably ex-military.
“Pastor Bellman?” asked Kelly.
“Yes?” replied the man.
“I’m in need of guidance. You can call me Kelly. I’m visiting from Utah.”
“Come with me.”
“Tenth Mountain Division, Afghanistan, 2004,” Pastor Bellman said, handing his guest a Coke. Turnbull took it and thanked him – he knew how expensive soda was here now. The pastor continued.
“I was the battalion chaplain. Good unit, good guys. Worst place in the world to be wearing a US Army uniform and not have a gun. Some of the local nationals fought with us for 20 years and Clinton just abandoned them. Fucking disgrace.”
Turnbull lifted an eyelid at the profanity.
“Son, I was an infantry chaplain.”
“All the pieces fit.”
“And you? I was with the grunts long enough that I can tell what you were just by looking at you,” said the minister. “The big question is what are you now?”
“Just a guy here to keep an eye on things, maybe help you folks keep from getting ground down.”
“You here to start a war, son?”
Turnbull shook his head. “No. No war. I just watch, report, maybe give you some helpful hints to keep the assholes from stomping you. That’s it.”
“I’m a shepherd who wants to see his flock grow and be happy, not see them be slaughtered.”
“Like I said, it’s not my job to pick a fight. Observe, report, provide some suggestions. And they were pretty clear on the no killing part.”
“They were clear, but I’m wondering if you were clear.”
Turnbull shrugged. “Well, I haven’t killed anyone since I’ve been here, so that’s something.”