Route 666

lean-to by the main motorwagon, where the two men were doing their business.

'So,' Quincannon said, 'let's get this clear, you're …what did you call yourselves?'

'Resettlers, sergeant We are here to reclaim the promised land.'

Quincannon was having trouble with the word. 'Resettlers?'

'Like the original pioneers, we are proceeding to the appointed place.'

'Salt Lake City?'

'The flower of the desert. The Shining City. It is the Rome of our faith.'

Quincannon whistled, not complementarily.

'I know Salt Lake. Used to be a Mormon hang-out. But it's a big ghost town now. The lake dried up when everything else did, and the solids died off or moved out. All there is now is the salt. Maybe a few scumscavengers, a gangcult hideout or two, but that's it. There's nothing for anyone in that hellhole. The Cav don't even bother to patrol the place.'

Elder Seth smiled the insufferable smile of someone who knows something he's not telling. Tyree's preachie father had been shaky with doubts all his life, but this God-botherer was certain he knew how the universe was ordered.

'It will be resettled, sergeant. The deserts will bloom again.'

'Are you some kind of irrigation expert?'

Elder Seth smiled again. The sunset caught in his eyes, giving him burning pupils like the Devil. Tyree couldn't tell, but she thought the Elder's eyes were silvery.

'That too. Mainly, I am a guide. I am just here to show these benighted people the Way…'

'The Way to what? A dusty death out here in Nowhere City, Utah?'

'Forget that name, sergeant. The Brethren of Joseph have changed it. By presidential decree, this territory is called Deseret now.'

'Desert?'

'No, Deseret. It is an old name. A Mormon name, as you said. The Mormons were, in many ways, a wise sect…'

Tyree knew that was an unusual thing for a Josephite Elder to say. They didn't usually have a good word for any other brand of Christian.

'The whole state, and more, is legally the property of the Brethren of Joseph. You will not be surprised to learn no one else wanted it. The purchase price was one dollar. This will be where it all starts.'

'What?'

'The reseeding of the Americas. The Great Reversal.'

Tyree felt tingly up and down her spine when Elder Seth spoke. His calm, even voice carried the unmistakable fire of truth. She didn't understand him but she could understand why people followed him. In some circumstances, she would have considered banging a tambourine in his backing group. Sister Maureen brought him a cup of some unsweetened chocolate drink, and he smiled upon her. If the Josephites hadn't abjured carnal relations, Tyree would have sworn Sister Maureen had itchy drawers for Elder Seth. The preacher was handsome in a cruel son-of- a-bitch sort of way, and his sombre sobriety suggested the sort of challenge any real woman would relish. If Gary Cooper had a mean streak a yard across, he would have been ideal casting for Dead in the Des: The Elder Seth Story.

'We will make a difference, sergeant. We will found our Shining City.'

'That's your right, elder,' said Quincannon, turning off his cyberfax. 'But you're certifiably insane to come out here with no weapons. This is wild country.'

There was a move in Washington, championed by Senator Manson, to amend the Constitution; outside the Policed Zones, the right to bear arms might well become an obligation to bear arms. The reasoning was that anyone who made easy meat of themselves was wasting the time and budget allocations of law enforcement agencies.

'We have our arms, sergeant. Faith and righteousness. Nothing can stand for long against them.'

Though she didn't talk about it with Cav personnel, Tyree had signed a petition against the Manson Amendment. The reasoning that any man not in possession of a gun was begging to be murdered was too close to the infuriatingly popular reasoning that any woman in possession of a vulva was begging to be raped.

'You might try explaining the faith and righteousness deal to the fellas Leona buried klicks back. Hooper and Lennart, wasn't it?'

'Our brothers understood. They went to glory joyous in the knowledge of the Lord. They forgave their tormentors.'

Quincannon was exasperated. He got up, and walked away. The Elder watched him off; from the rear, Quincannon's manly stride looked uncomfortably like a fatty's waddle.

'Sister,' Elder Seth turned to Tyree, 'was there something you desired?'

He was a tall man and must be well-muscled under his preacherman's suit. She could imagine him bending an iron bar into an oval without raising cords in his neck. She had no idea how old he was. His hair was as black as his hat and there were no lines on his face and neck, but a depth to his voice, a tone to his skin, suggested maturity, even venerability. When he smiled, he was careful not to show any teeth.

She had the most peculiar, not unpleasant, squirm inside her abdomen. Indecent ideas came to her.

Follow me, the Elder's eyes seemed to say.

She wanted to answer.

Suddenly, she was nervous again, watching the sun go down in Elder Seth's eyes. He drank his chocolate.

'No, sir,' she said, 'nothing.'

V

10 June 1995

The DAR had been racking up a heavy rep in the past few months. They had total-stumped some US Cav patrol in the Painted Desert and some were saying they had scratched a Maniax Chapter in the Rockies. After tonight, their time in the sun was Capital-O Over. And the Psychopomps would rule!

Jazzbeaux pushed a wing of hair back out of her eye and clipped it into a topknot-tail. She took off the shades and passed them back to Andrew Jean. A wave of slight sickness passed from her mind and she felt stronger, closer to the edge. Later, she'd think it through; now, she had busyness to bother with.

Moroni was a typical Irving's Intermediaries arena, some jerkwater zeroville nobody gave a byte about. They could rumble on Main Street without fear of interruption. The DAR clustered around the bank building, while the 'Pomps hung back by a deserted virtual arcade.

Buildings here were on raised wooden porches, Old West style. Tumbletrash blew through, skipping over the dusted and cracked road like crippled birds.

Jazzbeaux, still feeling the hugs of her girlies, stepped off the porch and into the street. Torches in the broken street-lamps and at points along the roofs cast firelight onto the street arena. After negotiations were over, the town could burn for all anyone cared.

She beckoned the Daughter forward with her razorfingered glove, and gave the traditional high-pitched 'Pomp giggle. The others behind her joined in, and the giggle sounded throughout the ghost town.

The Daughter didn't seem concerned. She came out from her corner daintily and used the bank's front steps.

Jazzbeaux got a first good look at Valli Forge, the girl she would probably have to zotz. She was maybe seventeen, and obviously blooded. There were fightmarks on her flat face and she had a figure that owed more to steroids and implants than nature. Her hair was dyed iron-gray and drawn up in a bun, with two needles crossed through it. She wore a pale blue suit, skirt slit up the thigh for combat and a white blouse. She had a throat-cameo with a hologram of George Washington and sensible shoes with concealed switchblades. Her acne hadn't cleared up