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THE VENERABLE MAYHEW
People had to trust someone, so they trusted in the Security Guards of the Retention Centre. But even the Guards were human, and humans make mistakes.
But if the Dactylogram Machine had been working, it might have caught the Seven Men of Fealty, a dangerous cult led by Mayhew, an even more dangerous man of low morals, tailed by his six faithful Disciples - or rather, it would have registered their lack of prints in its old, yet efficient algorithm. Instead, the cult was allowed to walk freely amongst the people. No one recognised them, because no one usually lived past first sight. Yet, for the cult's purposes, it was best to remain incognito, even if Mayhew had to occasionally remind his Disciples of this.
No one knew what was to come in the next few days - no one except for Mayhew, of course. Not even his Disciples knew. He had decided it would be best that way, because they became too excited at the prospect of blood, death and destruction. They were simple men, with a stringent belief in Mayhew as some kind of messianic figure. So firm was their faith, that sometimes even Mayhew began to believe his own hype.
"Are you a soldier?" The voice came from a boy of no more than five years, who had sat next to Mayhew. Mayhew looked up from the newsletter, with its usual death and destruction, disease and unrest, egotistically looking for his own name somewhere within. The further back in the newsletter he found his name, the more bitter he became. He turned to the boy as way of distraction.
"Why do you ask that, boy?"
"Sig."
"Sorry?"
"My name's Sig."
"Why do you ask that - Sig?"
"You look like one." he shrugged.
Mayhew smiled, "Yes, I am a kind of soldier."
"Aren't you supposed to declare it? Them posters over there say so."
Mayhew looked to the familiar posters the boy was referring to, "Oh, they don't mean me," Mayhew pulled in closer to the boy, conspiratorially, "I'm - under cover." he winked.
"Really? Why?"
"You ask a lot of questions -"
"Do you have a gun?" asked the boy, disinterested in Mayhew's comments.
"Not on me. Not all soldiers use guns, Sig. Some use knives. Others use their hands."
"What's the point of that? Isn't shooting a gun fun?"
"Ah but you see, Sig - seeing the life squeezed out of a man, not a few inches from your own face, feeling the life force leaving them? Oh, my boy, there's nothing like it." grinned Mayhew, mostly to himself.
Sig eyed him suspiciously, "I don't think I want to talk to you anymore." he declared.
Mayhew patted him on the back, smiling, "Probably a good idea, my boy." Mayhew watched as one of his Disciples, Grumb, walked over to him.
"The transport will be here within the next few minutes. Perhaps we should prepare?" he said. Mayhew nodded and rose from his seat, patting Sig humorously once more on his head in farewell. Sig just looked up at Mayhew, with a mix of annoyance and fear, then returned his attention to his own things.
"Have you chosen our Mule?" asked Mayhew, rejoining his Disciples. They were dotted about the hall, trying to look inconspicuous, but failing miserably.
"We have, Mayhew. See yonder?" Grumb pointed to a young man, perhaps in his twenties, with a backpack on, that seemed to be a little weightier than he was used to.
"Hmm. He'll have to do. Did you do the usual?"
Another of Mayhew's Disciples spoke up this time, obediently, "Yes. We told him that if he didn't carry it, we would kill his family while he watched."
"Good. You know how much I hate these methods, but it must be done. How big is it?"
"All I know is it will take out a square mile, Mayhew. We had no time to collect and load more explosives. Did we do right?" asked Gow, another of the Seven, genuinely concerned.
Mayhew put a brotherly arm on Gow's shoulder and squeezed, perhaps a little too hard, "Don't worry, Gow. It will be enough. Grumb? I trust you. Keep an eye on our Mule."
"As you command, Master." bowed Grumb venerably.
Mayhew took out a square of silver foil tightly wrapped, opened it and licked the powder from within. A buzz rushed to his head, nearly bringing him to his knees. When his eyes opened again, there was an orange tinge to his pupils. Just wait, he thought. Soon, it would start. Soon they would see. He was not a man to be argued with, to demand of, or to treat as they had. Oh, yes, it was personal. Very personal. And innocent people would die because of what they did to him; the insult they placed upon him.
They brought this upon themselves.
Mad, they said? He would show them the act of a madman! They would feel the wrath from that insult alone!
Slowly the transport approached and the Seven Men of Fealty stepped aboard.
Mayhew allowed himself a smile and a nod to little Sig. He, too, would die. Shame. He quite liked that kid.
Besides, it was far too late to stop it all now. The rumble began nearly as soon as the transport left the station.
#
Mayhew, he certainly garnered a reputation from that day. Not long after it happened, What Came Before devastated the landscape, beyond all recognition. His actions and the actions of his Disciples merely foretold of what was to come, even on their own small scale.
But it led to greater things for Mayhew. He went on to be part of the rebuilding process, eventually ending up as the Ruler of his own House. Soon people forgot his misdemeanours, his foibles, his little ways, as he firmed up the Seven Men by a dozen, then two dozen - then Trewstone Made, which counted as several dozen just on his own.
And how did he do it? With drugs. Lots of drugs; drugs to make you attentive, drugs to make you placid, drugs to make you hyper, drugs to - safe to say, drugs to do everything. But mainly for control. Mayhew loved control, power; the ability to guide the people as he saw fit, so he built a religion around it, which grew and grew.
Not bad for a terrorist junkie with a few explosives and a few insane ideas?
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