Prometheus Wakens - 16. Chapter 16: The Role of the Gods

Chapter 16: The Role of the Gods

Whittaker

The next morning I opened my eyes to find Reggie awake and leaning on his elbow looking at me.

“Whittaker, I . . . do you hate me, now?” Reggie asked.

I thought to hug him, but decided perhaps I should put that off for a bit.

“No, Reggie, I don’t hate you. I can’t hate you.

“And I have to tell you something.”

I sat up in the bed, but kept the light cover over my lap and legs. I didn’t want to be distracted, or to distract Reggie.

“Reggie? For the past month or so, I’ve been dreaming about you. I saw what happened to your father. I saw what happened to you. I watched you cry when you put babies’ bodies into the fire. I saw them hook you up to a lie detector. I saw you and felt what you felt when you saw the bodies of those young women. It wasn’t until then that I knew it was real ’cause that was the first time I felt what you were feeling. It wasn’t until then that I knew you were real, and that you might need help.”

“You know what I was thinking? You can read my mind?” Reggie whispered.

“No, not any more, and maybe not even then. I don’t think I was reading you, anyway. I think you were reaching out . . .”

“But what you said about Jordie,” he said. Seeing my puzzlement, he blushed and added, “The boy at church camp? Camp Genesis? You said you knew about him.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I did say that, but I don’t know how I knew it. Really, I can’t read your mind and even if I could, I couldn’t! I mean, I wouldn’t!”

“And my father?” Reggie asked. “You said he was murdered.”

“Soon, Reggie, I promise. Right now—we need to shower and get to Lucas’ home if we’re going to get any breakfast!”

Food seemed to capture Reggie’s attention long enough for me to lead him to the shower.

Reggie let me scrub his back, and did the same for me, although he didn’t go as far down as I did. He blushed, and tried to keep me from seeing his erection when we got out of the shower. I didn’t try to hide mine, and when he saw me waving around, he giggled, and got over whatever shyness he had left. I was kinda happy about that.

Lucas

Ash had taken supper to Whittaker and Reggie, and reported to me on their plans. I was content to let Whittaker have his head in this, but made sure he knew I expected their company at breakfast.

Ash began to describe their tummy-rubs, but I stopped him with a kiss.

“That’s not what I want to hear, although I see it’s got you excited.” Ash blushed. I pulled him to me and hugged him. It was the beginning of a wonderful night with him.

The next day’s dryad was a Maple, Acer leucoderm. I asked if I might call him Luke, and he decided he liked that nickname, and agreed. Luke kept me posted on Whittaker and Reggie’s activities, and even though it was later than usual, food was hot when they arrived. And Luke thought to provide a platter of bacon. Whittaker grinned when he saw it.

Your brothers seem to know you, I sent, and watched Whittaker blush. Reggie saw it, too, but didn’t know what to make of it.

After introducing myself to Reggie, I mentioned Whittaker’s seeming infatuation with bacon. “Actually,” I said quietly, and with a wink to Reggie, “I think he just uses it as an excuse.”

“Why does he need an excuse when he can have bacon whenever he wants?” Reggie asked. “ ’Cause he’s a dryad and a demi-god and ’cause you’re some kind of a god or something and you kinda run things around here.”

Wow, a very succinct if wrong understanding of this reality. I needed to get Reggie on the right track, and right away.

“I know that Maple told you yesterday that the dryads’ job was to serve and to help. That’s true of me, as well. And, it’s true of a bunch of other people you will meet if you decide to stay with us for a while.”

“Maple said the dryads were demi-gods,” Reggie said. “And that you were their boss. That makes you a god, and—”

“But that’s not what I am,” I interrupted. “I was given the powers of a Titan. I was given the Attributes and Authorities of Prometheus. But I am not he.

“That doesn’t mean that there aren’t gods running around. Mars, the god of War, who is also Mithras, the soldiers’ god, is one of my friends. And he’s adamant that he’s not to be worshipped, and that his most important job is to protect and give comfort to soldiers.

“Athena, Demeter, Aphrodite, Apollo, and others are here to serve. There are some gods who don’t seem to understand that, but they are few and not nearly as powerful as we are.”

I crossed mental fingers when I said that last part. I was pretty sure it was right, but wasn’t looking forward to the day when it might have to be tested.

“The elder gods were created by humankind to serve them. Early humans wanted someone who could explain and control storms and lightning; they wanted someone who could explain and control drought and flood. They didn’t need to know about El Niño or La Niña.” I looked, and realized Reggie had no idea what I was talking about.

“These early people didn’t care about the why of the weather; they just wanted enough rain for the crops to grow and not too much that they would be flooded. So, they created gods who could control the weather. After enough people believed in them, these gods became real.

“For the most part, the gods knew they were created to serve. Some didn’t get that message, or grew away from it.

“Yahweh, especially, seemed to think he was created to be served and worshipped, and he had a thing for the ‘sweet smell of sacrifice,’ meaning—well, what we might call barbeque.” I heard Luke giggle.

“The god you learned about at the Universal Fundamentalist Church demanded human sacrifices, right?” I asked.

“No!” Reggie said.

“What about Abraham who was ordered to kill his son, Isaac?”

“That was just a test,” Reggie said, “and God didn’t let it happen.”

“Not until after his daddy had scared the hel— the heck out of Isaac,” Whittaker said, and folded his arms across his chest.

“What about Jephthah, who turned his daughter into a burnt offering, and Yahweh was pleased with that?” I asked.

Reggie didn’t answer, so I pressed ahead. “And doesn’t he demand your worship? “No other gods before me being the first and therefore the most important of the most important rules?”

“Uh, yes, I guess so,” Reggie said.

“That’s all I’m going to say about that, Reggie,” I said.

“We all have stories. You’ll hear some of them. Some of the stories are just too awful or too hard. Maybe, after a while, you’ll understand who we are.”

* * * * *

By the time I’d finished that lecture, breakfast was over, and Luke had cleared the table. Reggie didn’t seem to be too dazed, so I asked, “What will you do, today?”

“My mother will be worried,” Reggie said, before Whittaker could respond. “I need to let her know that I’m okay.”

I felt fear from Whittaker. Help me, please, Lucas, he sent. I can’t tell him, but his mother is dead—the policeman from the church came looking for Reggie. She refused to talk to him, and he killed her!

You must comfort him, I sent. But I will tell him.

“Reggie, I’m sorry, but your mother is dead. She was killed by a policeman—from your church. His name is Murr.”

Whittaker had taken Reggie’s hand the instant I started talking. When I finished, Whittaker pulled Reggie to his lap and hugged him while Reggie cried.

Whittaker thought that the best thing for Reggie after learning about his mother would be to tire him out. Whittaker took the younger boy by the hand and led him down the path to begin an exploration of the island. The boys were barely out of sight when George popped in. Luke brought a cup for George and more coffee for us both.

George thanked the boy and then said, “Maple, you must not hear this. Lucas?”

“Luke, please wait under the oaks, and warn them not to listen.” The dryad nodded. The boys knew that I trusted them, and also knew that sometimes I hid things from them to protect them—from harm or hurt or simply from unpleasantness.

“Luke?” George asked after the boy had moved away.

I explained the origin of the nickname, and why I needed to identify the boys, individually. “They are all dryads, and they share a lot in common; however, they are all unique individuals—at least, they have been in their previous lives. Somehow, I think it’s important that they retain both their individual and their collective identities.”

George agreed, and then said why he’d come. “I received a call from Pluto, this morning,” George said. “He was—startled, perhaps is the best word—when Whittaker brought Reggie into this reality. He told me who they were.”

“I don’t understand. They both came from my old reality,” I said. “And neither had died, first. How would he . . . ?

“And before that, from another reality,” George answered. “One where you and I have avatars. One in which they had been boyfriends in a society in which boyfriend was anathema. A society in which Reggie was murdered by a sexual predator and in which Whittaker was so despondent he took his own life.

“Neither of them remembers this, nor will they,” he said. “But Pluto thought you should know.”

“How did they get here . . . I mean, I know how they got here, but how did they get into my old reality?”

“I’m only beginning to understand this, myself,” George said, reminding me of our first conversation in which we agreed to help one another understand some of the mysteries surrounding our jobs.

“I think you know that the gods were created and given powers by humanity. Why is there more than one reality? Why is there more than one reality in which we exist? Why are some of us so similar, and others so different in each of these realities?

“More important to me, am I the same person as my avatar in all the realities?

“The question is important if for no other reason than this: it seems that Pluto is unique, and his realm extends across all realities. At least, all those of which we are aware.”

I grasped the notion instantly. “Whittaker and Reggie—their souls—were born into one reality. They died and went to Pluto’s realm. They were reborn in my old reality, and have been brought here. When they die, they will return to Pluto’s realm from which they will be born into some reality, perhaps a different one.”

George nodded. “That is the essence of it.”

“They have been reunited here. Will they always be reunited?” I asked.

George shook his head. “I asked that question of Pluto. I don’t think even he knows the answer.”

“That’s another mystery I want to solve,” I said. “And a place for us to exercise our power, should it be needed.”

George knew what I meant: Whittaker and Reggie had been thrown in a crucible. They had faced more challenges than they deserved—at least, so George and I thought—, and from us, they deserved happiness. At least, that was our conclusion. I wondered, though, about karma, and realized that it what mortals thought of as karma could only be brought about by gods or avatars such as myself doing what we did—offering help, and visiting justice where needed using the power that existed outside the normal rules of cause-and-effect that the mortals knew. And I wondered, again, what was the source of that power.

More important at this moment, however, were the thoughts Whittaker had left me about Reggie’s father. They suggested a new mission, and one that involved far more than just Whittaker.

Luke was delighted to be asked to contact Aphrodite, and prepared refreshments for her visit. I told her the story of Reggie—and made the connection between her concern about the UFC and the Boulder laboratory.

“This Finger person appears in both stories. And from what Whittaker said, he’s at the center of both events.”

For a moment, I thought I saw claws extend from Aphrodite’s fingers, and wondered if I should ask her if she were part cat—or perhaps was a descendant of one of the Egyptian gods. She spoke before I could frame the question.

“I am not surprised, and I hope you see and understand my concerns,” she said.

“Aphrodite, I do see and I do understand. You said you were going to take on this task—a task that is not yet well defined, I should add. I will offer whatever support I can.

I turned to Luke. “Do not tell the other dryads what I am about to say. They want to surprise me, and I will be truly surprised. But you are not to let them know that you know that I know.”

Luke blinked several times as he digested what I’d said, and then agreed. I continued.

“The Heroes Battalion has been training the Dryads, and I understand that their weapons and armor will be delivered from the forges of Vulcan, soon.”

I knew that the shipload of copper ore that Poseidon claimed for Vulcan was in part payment for that armor. Another secret that I wasn’t supposed to let on that I knew.

“I can think of little better to challenge a religion that was screwed up so badly by a Greek—Saul of Tarsus, later known as the apostle Paul—than an army of Greek hoplites.”

They have decided that their uniforms and armor should be that of the ancient—no, not so ancient in this world! That of the heroes in the battles fought in this reality. I knew the medieval names for some of the pieces: greaves to protect the shins; cuisses to protect the thighs; similar plates strapped to forearms and biceps; a breastplate; a helmet. A leather skirt—longer than the tunics they normally wore, overlaid with a skirt of interlaced metal plates. I wasn’t sure it was entirely authentic, but it was close enough, and since Vulcan made it at his forge, it would protect them as well as any ballistic armor of my reality.

Aphrodite seemed flustered, and I knew it was because of her concern about planning and leading an army of dryads into a different reality to combat a new foe.

“I am sure,” I said, “that Athena and Mars will offer help in planning. I am sure, too, that there will be dryads who can lead the forces into battle—whatever form that battle might take.”

Aphrodite relaxed, but I realized that rather than delegating the entire task to her, I had accepted one, myself: determining who would be the dryad commander.

Some months earlier,
Sun-Wrest Solar Energy, Inc.,
Boulder, Colorado,
Earth Analogue VII

Robert Eisenman handed the bill of lading to the driver and then waved the truck away from the loading dock. The chemicals in the sealed drums were destined not for the incinerator operated by the Army’s hazardous materials disposal system at the old Rocky Flats Arsenal, but for a warehouse in Boulder. He had no idea what Reverend Finger needed with 500 gallons of residue from solar cell manufacturing. He was, in fact, uncomfortable with the Reverend’s orders, and planned to question them at the next meeting of the Men’s Thursday Prayer Group.

Two mornings after that Thursday meeting, Robert Eisenman lay on the concrete floor of the loading dock of the Sun Wrest plant. A puddle of chemicals from a broken drum surrounded him. He was not dead, yet, but the fumes would kill him in less than an hour. His body would not be discovered until Monday morning. By then, the residue of the chloral hydrate that had been used to knock him out would have dissipated.

Present Day
Fire Marshall’s Office,
Boulder, Colorado

“Someone didn’t manage to wipe out all the evidence,” Fire Marshall Major Taylor said. “And, thanks to the information we got from the Air Force, we’ve been able to trace some of it.

“A copy of a bill of lading that directed 500 gallons of chemical residue to a warehouse in Boulder was overlooked. It wasn’t even a warehouse, but a self-storage unit in the warehouse district. The person who had leased the unit failed to pay rent after the first month. The owner tried to make a profit by putting the contents of the unit for auction on some stupid TV reality show. As soon as the unit was opened, and the TV cameras showed leaking drums, the police were called in. When they discovered what was in the drums, I was notified. It was methyl ethyl ketone, one of the chemicals used as accelerants in the fires at the Boulder lab and at least one of the gay bars in Denver.”

“How does that do us any good?” the team member from the sheriff’s department asked.

“The storage company requires a photo ID. The photo ID that was offered was fake; however, the photo was valid. You probably know that the government has been working on ‘crowd-sourcing’ software to identify people spotted on security cameras, and that they’re using the billions of photos on the PostYourFace social networking site as a test bed for that. Well, that software identified the photo on the ID used to rent the storage unit as being a police officer who is a member of the Boulder Universal Fundamentalist Church.

“I cannot tell you how sensitive this is. Please, keep this information confidential until I can get it to the District Attorney, and he can convene a grand jury.”

Two of the men who had attended the briefing raced one another to be the first to present the information to the UFC leadership.

While the DA digested the information he’d received, Major Taylor tried again to contact Reggie Eisenman. His phone calls rang into voice mail, and none were returned.

Major Taylor’s arson team thought they had a case, but the DA was not as confident. In fact, he was singularly unhelpful. “Allegations, assumptions, and assertions,” he said. “It seems to hang together, but there are not enough facts. I’m sorry.”

* * * * *

The Boulder, Colorado Universal Fundamentalist Church Men’s Thursday Prayer Group—not to be confused with the Wednesday night Bible Meeting, the Tuesday night Prayer Circle, the Friday Singing, the Sunday Vespers, the Monday Family-at-Home, or the Saturday Sports League Supper for the Entire Family—met in the sanctuary as it always did. This Thursday, however, the men’s prayer group was without their leadership.

A Deacon led them through the forms of worship while in another room, the Reverend Finger and twelve of the men planned. One of the men, the Boulder District Attorney, assured the Reverend and the rest of the men that they were all safe.

“The Fire Marshall has some damning evidence, but most of that can be suppressed . . . and ultimately destroyed. Captain Murr, you screwed up badly when you allowed your photo to be placed on the license used to rent the storage facility. Those records are on state servers. I cannot remove them. You may want to consider moving out of state and taking on a new identity. I’m sure that our Montana branch can help, if Reverend Finger agrees.”

Finger thought for only a moment. Murr was a valuable tool, and heretofore had been unassailable. If Finger were clever, he could put the Montana branch in debt to himself, while removing Murr as a liability. He agreed to the District Attorney’s proposal.

“I will contact Bozeman tomorrow. Officer Murr? You have a great future ahead of you. Please do not forget your beginnings or your friends.”

The men returned to the sanctuary, and Reverend Finger began his ritual exhortation. He’d not said but a few words before figures appeared beside him, and beside the dozen other men who sat in the chancel. The figures wore plumed helmets, glowing breastplates, and facial expressions that brooked no nonsense.

“These men are charged with crimes including murder and conspiracy to commit murder. They will be removed from here to be judged,” one of the figures said. He seemed to be the eldest at perhaps eighteen years of age. His golden blond hair fell below the helmet to nearly his shoulders. The other figures were younger, but none seemed childlike.

Each of the thirteen men were seized by two of the armed and armoured boys. There was a brief breeze that blew toward the chancel, and the men and boys disappeared. The men who remained, seated in pews facing the altar, sat in stunned silence before breaking into a babble of conversation.

* * * * *

On the morning of that Thursday, Major Taylor had closed a file folder, and tossed it into his “to file” basket when he felt a breeze. There should not have been a breeze in his office. He looked up. Two boys stood in front of his desk. They wore costumes that reminded the major of something from a history book. One looked familiar, but the helmet drew Taylor’s attention from the boy’s face. What the heck?

“Major Taylor?” the familiar boy said. “I’m Reggie Eisenman. We met after the fire at the abortion clinic.”

The major nodded his recognition. “You have been missing for three weeks.”

“You are right,” Reggie said. “I’ve been gone since I saw you the day of the fire.”

The major hesitated, but said what had to be said. “Then you may not know. Reggie, I’m sorry, but your mother is dead.”

“Thank you, Major Taylor. I knew that, actually. And, I know who killed her. And who killed my father. And who set the fires you’ve been investigating. And we’re here to bring them to justice.”

If Reggie had read the major, he didn’t let on. “My father was murdered by the people who burned down the laboratory on the campus and the abortion clinic and a gay bar in downtown Denver.

“Oh, this is my friend Whittaker. He’s . . .” Reggie wasn’t sure how to tell the Fire Marshall that Whittaker was a dryad, so he said, “He’s got friends who know what really happened, and who can help bring to justice the people responsible.”

“Things are going to be a little different,” Whittaker said. “Different from what you are used to. But it will be fair, open, and honest. That’s all I can promise, except that we will exact justice, and we will remove the guilty. Not as punishment, but so that they can never do anything like this, again.”

Major Taylor wasn’t a fool, and he wasn’t superstitious. Still, things were happening that were well beyond his understanding.

“Reggie, I’m sorry about your father.” He gestured to the file folder he had tossed aside. “I have a pretty good idea of what happened. When you’re older, perhaps—”

He stopped speaking when Reggie giggled. “Older? Where I’m from, time doesn’t matter,” Reggie said.

Reggie’s smile relaxed, and his lips tightened before he said, “I thank you for wanting to protect me. Um, maybe you’ll give a copy of the file to Whittaker? He will know when I’m ready to learn what you have to say.”

Major Taylor looked at the second boy, seemed to like what he saw, nodded, and then continued speaking. “Your understanding of justice is very much like my own, and I won’t have any problem helping you make sure those responsible can never do anything like this again.

“I do need to know more about you, though. Why you are dressed as Roman soldiers would be a start.”

“Greek, actually,” Whittaker said. “Will you accompany us when we arrest those responsible? But first, perhaps you’d like to meet the guy we’re working for?”

Whittaker wasn’t sure about taking the major to Thermai, still, the major wasn’t overwhelmed—well, not much—when he, Reggie, and Whittaker appeared on the patio of Lucas’ home.

Lucas was waiting.

“Major Taylor, this is Lucas. He’s kind of my boss and kind of my boyfriend. I hope that’s okay, but you need to know all about us if you are to trust us,” Whittaker said.

Reggie looked at Whittaker. “And Whittaker and I are boyfriends, too. And that’s got to be okay with you, if we’re going to work together,” he said.

Major Taylor looked from Reggie to Whittaker to Lucas. Then he smiled. “My son decided a couple of weeks ago that he was gay. We talked a lot about that. He’s only twelve, and maybe he is, and maybe he isn’t. I still think twelve is too young to know for sure. But whatever happens, he knows that his mother and I will love and support him. It doesn’t bother me—if “bother” is even the right word—that you’re boyfriends. The only thing is . . . well, someday, maybe you’d talk to my son? When the time is right, of course.”

The two dryads and the avatar of a Titan agreed, and then began planning. When they had finished, a call was sent to Aphrodite and to Dike. The two women appeared on the patio in minutes, and were offered coffee and wine.

“I don’t believe that your world can offer a fair trial,” the older woman said after hearing the story. “Certainly not in Boulder, and not where that district attorney has sway. We can offer not only a fair trial, but also provide whatever correction or punishment is required.”

She looked to Aphrodite and then me for agreement before saying, “Lucas? Will you bring the principals to my courtroom?”

* * * * *

Reverend Finger and his twelve disciples found themselves, still held immobile by a boy on each arm, in a room lit only by gaslight. The warm light of the lamps was reflected from wood polished by decades of care. A judge’s bench, a solid block of polished oak, was separated from the rest of the room by an ornate railing. Behind the block sat a woman wearing a black robe and a flat cap, not unlike the mortarboard associated with academia. Below her cap, long, tightly curled white hair fell nearly to her shoulders.

The boys escorted the thirteen men to an area bounded by a shorter railing. The boy soldiers who had arrested them then took places behind the judge. Finger and his men were now guarded by Scions of Hermes—green-skinned, scaly, reptilian, but humanoid, nevertheless. If the men had seen them in their true forms, they’d probably have pissed their pants.

Across the room stood a boy, perhaps twelve years old, wearing black robes and what was obviously—given his age—a wig of white curls not unlike those of the woman seated behind the bench—the woman who was the judge.

The boy with the long, blond hair, who now wore a similar robe and wig, joined the other boy. The woman rapped a gavel. Whittaker announced, “King’s Bench Seven is in special session. Let all who would be heard draw nigh.

“Whittaker, is the prosecution prepared?”

Whittaker replied, “Yes, Your Honor. The prosecution is prepared.”

Whittaker whispered to the boy beside him. “Aiden? We’re prepared, right?”

Aiden giggled softly so not to draw the ire of Dike. “Yes,” he whispered.

Dike looked at the men in the dock. “Is the defense prepared?”

The other men looked at Reverend Finger. Finger shrugged off the hands of the scion who was holding him.

“Who the hell—”

His mouth slammed shut at Dike’s gesture.

“Would someone else like to answer that question?” she asked.

“You haven’t read us our rights!” Officer Murr shouted.

“You have no rights except the right of justice, tempered with mercy, and based on truth,” Dike said. “You, sir, will be the first to see that justice.

“Aiden?”

“The man is Captain Murr, a policeman and an officer of the court who abused his position of trust to commit and conceal crimes,” Aiden announced. “Officer Murr has—according to the evidence—bastardized his responsibilities and besmirched his badge.”

“You have no jurisdiction,” Officer Murr said. He looked at Dike’s robe, and white curls. “And I don’t recognize some twenty year old British judge.”

“I am more Greek than British,” Dike said. Her voice was pleasant. Then, it hardened. “And I am more than 10,000 years old. Does this make you more comfortable?” Dike morphed into a woman, nearly seven feet tall, with hair blacker than her robes. The policeman paled. The stench that quickly filled the room suggested that he had, indeed, pissed his pants—if not more.

Whittaker laid out his case: Officer Murr had used his position as a policeman to commit crimes, including the murder of Reggie’s parents, the theft of drugs, and others. Officer Murr was given opportunity to respond to each charge. His every attempt to lie his way out of the charges was cut off by Dike.

After a few minutes, Dike declared Officer Murr’s trial to be over.

“I think we can move this matter forward by going directly to the trial of Reverend Finger,” she said.

Aiden read charge after charge, beginning with the most serious: the murder of seven young women at a clinic. Finger had been there to shut off alarms, pour gasoline, and direct others in their tasks. Aiden continued to read from a list that included conspiracy and complicity in a fire at a gay bar that killed seven people; and conspiracy and complicity in the destruction of the CDC laboratory.

“Your honor, the prosecution has several more pages of charges, none capital, which we could read.”

“Thank you, Aiden,” Dike said. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Do you wish to present witnesses to refute any of these charges?” Dike asked Finger. He looked at the other men in the dock.

“Other than your co-defendants?” Dike said.

“Many my congregation will testify I was with them at the times this child alleges I was elsewhere,” he said. And froze when Dike spoke.

“Congregation. As in congregate, as sheep do when led from the pasture by a bellwether.

“No, that will not do. Anyone else?”

“My fellows from the seminary, they know me to be a righteous man!” Finger said.

Dike furrowed her brow, thought for a moment, and then said. “Thank you. From your memories we have found more than a dozen men to investigate. They will not be happy that you . . . Whittaker? What is the expression?”

Whittaker and Dike exchanged thoughts.

“Yes, of course,” Dike said. “They will not be happy that you ratted them out. I don’t think you should call on them. Anyone else?”

The Reverend stood mute.

“In your world,” Dike said, “it is common to parade a victim’s family and friends, as well as the perpetrator’s family and friends before a jury making a sentencing decision. The objective is to sway the jury’s decision with emotion. That is crass. It is illogical. It leads to recidivism. It serves no purpose but to make news headlines—and the news media are the real drivers of your so-called justice system.

“We temper justice with mercy—and with common sense. But we do not allow a parade of sobbing idiots who can add nothing but tears.

“Finger? I will not use the honorific to which you aspired. You are condemned to death, and to a complete erasure of all you knew from the beginning of time to the moment of your death. It is hoped that you will, in your next life, be better than you have been in this one.

“On the other hand, please be assured, someone will be watching.”

Finger’s incredulity at Dike’s pronouncement of his punishment, coupled with her description of his immortality and reincarnation was suddenly moot. His body fell to the floor.

Dike looked at the others: Officer Murr and the remaining of Finger’s apostles. “You have been charged with and are guilty of your own crimes, as well as complicity in those of Finger and Murr. I need do nothing more than execute the same sentence that Finger received.”

She gave no one time to respond. They had been judged. There was no response that would be acceptable. Twelve more bodies dropped to the floor.

A gesture by Dike, and all thirteen bodies were returned to the chancel of the Boulder, Colorado Universal Fundamentalist Church less than an eyeblink from the time Whittaker and the dryads had removed them.

At the gates of Hades, Cerberus licked his chops.

Chapter End Note: The story of Whittaker and Reggie in another reality is at

http://www.gayauthors.org/story/david-mcleod/protectorofchildren/16