their own grandmother to get their trackers removed.”
Ruppert looked at the old man. He seemed sane, even kindly. If Terror had implanted a tracking device in his body, Ruppert definitely wanted it out, but he wasn’t sure he was ready to let a bearded old man who lived in a cave perform surgery on his toe, much less an area close to his heart and spine.
“You’re really a doctor?” Ruppert asked.
“I served as a Navy medical officer in two campaigns,” Dr. Smith said. 'Iran and Tajikistan. I was once issued an M.D. from the Yale School of Medicine. The Department of Terror has implanted a device in your body which allows them to pinpoint you at any second of any day, and such devices are often fitted with a tiny bubble of lethal toxin that can be broken open by remote control. This bubble, if present inside you, was manufactured by government contractors.
'Now. Do my qualifications meet with your approval, or would you prefer to contact your insurance provider?”
Ruppert looked between them. What choice did he have?
Following directions, Ruppert lay facedown on the cold metal plate of the operating table, which was only about a yard off the RV’s floor. Dr. Smith checked his blood pressure, then worked with the implements on the kitchen counter, while asking mundane questions that made the situation feel almost normal: How recently had Ruppert seen a doctor? Age? Height? Weight? Allergies, previous surgeries?
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
