J Bryan - Dominion

The old doctor eased into a low chair on Ruppert’s right side. He had sheathed his hands in latex gloves and tucked away his beard and hair behind a green cap and mask.

“I hope you’ll excuse my sitting down for this,” Smith said. “It’s rather difficult to perform while leaning on this ridiculous cane. Lucia, would you swab him here?” Ruppert felt the cool liquid on his bare upper back. “Now activate the screen.”

The thick, boxy old screen in front of Ruppert blinked to life, but only displayed meaningless gray blurs.

“Good,” Dr. Smith said. “Now hand me that syringe of anesthetic-no, the other-no, Lucia, the other end of the rack.”

“Is she qualified for this?” Ruppert asked.

“Not at all,” Lucia said as she passed a glass syringe to Dr. Smith. "Did you mean this pointy thing, doctor?"

“She's only trying to scare you," Dr. Smith said. "Miss Santos has sufficient experience. I require assistance, and here, that’s either Lucia or the nearest coyote. And I don’t believe you’ll find a coyote with a medical license. Though I understand Harvard has lowered their admissions standards considerably.”

Ruppert felt the needle puncture his skin, and his right shoulder fell numb.

“We’ll give that just a minute to settle in,” Dr. Smith said. “Tell me, Daniel, have you been approached by anyone…unusual, in recent days or weeks?”

“Besides you two?” Ruppert asked.

“I was thinking of someone from the opposite side of things.”

Ruppert immediately decided against telling them about his imprisonment by Terror-it might raise their suspicions, because Terror very rarely released anyone. He opted for a partial truth. “I did get called in to see my pastor at church. Someone decided I didn’t look devoted enough to the One King. That’s what they call God. I assume they mean God.”

“Keep still,” Dr. Smith said. “I’m cutting now. Do you feel any pain?”

“Nothing,” Ruppert said. He was numb from his neck to his knees.

“Are you in the habit of speaking to him?” Smith asked.

“No, we never spoke before.”

“Dominionist?” Smith asked. “One of those big stadium churches?”

“Yes. Golden Tabernacle. His name is John Perrish.”

“I don’t know that name. Not that it matters. I assure you the man is a psycho.”

“He didn’t seem crazy to me,” Ruppert said. “Definitely creepy, though.”

“He’s clueless,” Lucia said.

“Remain very still,” Dr. Smith said. “If you look on the screen, you can see the edge of your shoulder blade.”

Ruppert looked up at the image on the screen, but it was still grainy blurs to him. “You’re inside me?”

“I am.”

“I hope you can see that stuff better than I can.” The image on the screen advanced from one blurry area to the next.

“I can see what I need,” Dr. Smith said. “You’re completely unfamiliar with PSYCOM, then?”

“With what?" Ruppert asked.

“Lucia, would you help explain? I’m certain he would prefer I concentrate on the task at hand.”

“Please,” Ruppert said.

Lucia pulled up a chair in front of Ruppert. She’d tied her long hair back from her face.

“You have heard of psy-ops, right?” she asked as she sat down to face him. “Psychological operations run by the military, or intelligence, or politicians?”

“Right,” Ruppert said. “Like dropping leaflets on other countries when we attack them.” He thought of his own job. “Or planting stories in the news.”

“Sure.” Lucia said, rolling her eyes. “If this was World War I, maybe.”

“What else?” Ruppert asked. “The churches, that’s what you’re saying?”

“You must understand that no government rules by violence alone,” Dr. Smith said. “A state must appear legitimate to its population-at least, a substantial portion of its population. We calculated that one-third of the population is sufficient for absolute control, provided that the remaining two thirds remain factioned and quarreling. Ideally, of course, you would prefer to have majority compliance, but this is nearly impossible to effect reliably over the long term."

“I’m not sure I’m following you,” Ruppert said. He watched as the viewpoint onscreen nudged past a swollen blob that might have been muscle tissue.

“Someone explained it to me like this,” Lucia said. “What’s the difference between a king and a warlord?”

“What?” Ruppert asked.

“It’s like a riddle.”

“I don’t know. A king wears a crown?”

“He’s not so far off,” Dr. Smith commented.

“The difference,” Lucia said, “Is that a king has priests who back this crazy claim that he's the king and should be obeyed.”

“And a warlord?” Ruppert asked.

“He just has guys with guns.”

“A question of legitimacy,” Dr. Smith said. “Ordained by the gods, or forced by bloodshed, you see. The priests who cooperate inevitably grow quite wealthy and powerful themselves. They feed upon the system.”

“You’re saying the Dominionist churches are propaganda tools,” Ruppert said. “But that's obvious.”

“You’re skipping over the point,” Dr. Smith said. “In ancient times, a priesthood sufficed to legitimize the king. Ruling the modern world requires a complex information machinery. Priests, as you’ve mentioned, but also public relations professionals, historians, publishers, news reporters, teachers. The absurd rigmarole of voting and elections. Public rituals to make the commoners feel they are a part of things. Hold your breath and refrain from moving.”

Ruppert heard a mechanical clatter somewhere behind him, then a hissing, sucking noise close by his head.

“Stay where you are,” Dr. Smith said. “When fighting a war, a ruler has two goals in the area of public opinion. Generate support among your own population and discord among the enemy’s. We’ve done tremendous research in both areas. Eventually, you come to see all populations, enemy or ally, as the same, because in all circumstances the goal is to generate support for you and hostility toward the enemy.

“We learned to wage information war. We developed methods of infiltrating and subverting key information institutions in a society-the news media, yes, but also the long-term indoctrination structures of education and religion. We learned to exploit a culture’s myths, because myths are easier to manipulate than facts. Let’s have a look at the little beast. You can sit up now.”

Ruppert did, turning to face Dr. Smith, who was lifting a vial from a rattletrap machine connected to a long, thin hose that lay limp on the table, its metal tip wet with Ruppert’s blood. Smith held out the vial towards him.

Inside, at the very bottom of the container, lay a blood-smudged coil of wire no wider than Ruppert’s smallest fingernail.

“It’s still active,” Dr. Smith said. “Lucia, would you mind?”

Lucia set the vial into a holder at the end of the kitchen counter. She lifted an eyedropper and squeezed out a small stream of clear fluid into the vial. The little device smoldered.

“Acid,” she told Ruppert. “You want to make sure you destroy them.” She corked the vial containing the melting tracker.

“How were you involved?” Ruppert asked Dr. Smith, who still occupied the low chair beside him. “You keep saying ‘We.’”

“Yes.” Dr. Smith removed the pointed tip of the laparoscopy hose, opened a low kitchen cabinet, and pitched it into an empty paint bucket. “It’s an old problem, you see. We ran these operations separately. You’d have intelligence serving their purposes, military branches and divisions serving their separate purposes, and of course the official culture with the diplomats. The politicians scrambling things up here and there. The psy-ops would clash against each other in unplanned ways. Originally, they were only a sort of ad hoc tool, you understand? There was very little coordination.”