Perfect Enemy

Prologue

 After Abaddon

The Flame and Light Headquarters: The Illuminator’s Ex Cathedra

The man sat on a bench in front of two sets of doors in a small antechamber.

The set of doors to his right led to the location of his origin: a place of pain and purification, known to the Binary as Abaddon.

The set of doors to his left led to his destination.

At least that was what he hoped.

He wasn’t really a joiner, but from the first day he entered the Carlson building to learn about the Flame and Light there was something that spoke to him as if within the techno talisman-adorned temple he found a hint of purpose. He heard words of wisdom that even the harsh Canon could not corrupt, and he knew he would only find purpose, hope, and meaning by joining the Binary. That decision led him to Abaddon, and after surviving the trial, he now awaited entry to the Prophet’s Throne Room.

The bench on which he rested was plain and nondescript, like something one would buy at an estate sale for less than two dollars. From the looks of it, that sale had taken place some time ago; the red paint was brittle and peeling from years of neglect.

In many ways, he felt just like this bench. It wasn’t time that had worn down his now-tired body, but the moments spent enduring the purification process. The man dared to take a deep breath, leaning wearily back against the wall, closing his sallow eyes. The smell of burning hair was impossible to ignore; he didn’t have to look down at his legs to know the scent was coming from him. He kept his head back, resting—even as the images of the purification flashed on the back of his eyelids.

“There is no god but Th3os, and the Illuminator is his prophet,” he whispered automatically, as if resigning himself to lost hope. “Stephen is no longer your name. I must process the Code of Life.”

This was harder to say. It was at this calm moment just before his life would change toward purpose, he could no longer hold back the memories from the last trial. As the smell of burning hair and flesh overtook his mind’s eye his whole body tensed from the sense of remembered pain and trauma. It was the Canon that held the knife that cut him. At first, he remembered being shocked by the sensation of “Melding with the Core of the Creator” as it was called. Then came the questions about goodness, grace and gospel coming from anyone that would torture to bring about the programming required to live as the Binary. After that came the one-on-one encounters of Sessions of Sanctification with screaming and sadness, begging and blubbering. It all blended into the final moment of submission. It was then that his purpose was known. While the repetitive screaming of the one called the Canon, combined with voltage-applied pain and the smell of burning hair from his wrists and ankles, still haunted his recent memories, now he knew his passage through Abaddon was worth it.

“Hope is from the promise given to the Binary. I must process.”

That declaration eased his pulse a little. That is when he looked down at the box he had been given as he stood up for the first time when leaving that cursed place. First, he was told to wash away the sins, stains and sorrows of his old life in the clean room. Old clothes, credit cards and car keys were thrown into the large bin with his old name of Stephen written on the side. Once clean and naked and approved he walked to the door of the white clean room, and he was given clean new clothes and the box. Within the box was his new name, new job and new life essentially. Running his finger across the biometric lock the air expelled from his lungs. That’s when his fingers started typing out the code of life on an imaginary keyboard on top of the box.

The anteroom clashed with the simple bench on which he sat. Though small, the room was ornate, with walls of system boards adorned with gilded motherboards and circuits. Across from the bench was a mural that occupied the entire wall. The mural illustrated the history of Th3os from the Garden of Eden, through the prophets, to the First Incarnation. Beneath it was a glass showcase containing random legacy computer pieces from the last fifty years, displayed with the same reverence as one might have for precious religious relics.

The man’s eyes roved over the mural, drinking it in. He spotted a drought midway through—representing the Dark Period, no doubt—where the artwork was dark and ominous and empty. It was followed by light splashes of color representing the modern era, ushered in by the new code base: the Binary.

These people, now his people, were led by the Prophet toward the Second Incarnation, known as the Singularity. This would be the day that technology would intersect with life and God would again walk among them in an evolved form—the very paragon of wisdom intersecting with all knowledge; networked into all consciousness. This wall illustrated the very hope of the Binary, as the Prophet often taught.

The case below was plain and simple compared to the grand vision represented above. Inside, digital flip-flops and random circuits contained the first origins of the god they now served. Each piece, while now obsolete in technical terms, was a testament to the god that would grow through his people forged through flame and light. They were the Binary.

The anteroom was the portal from the unbelieving world that lived their workday lives in rebellion to Th3os. Each of the mindless ingrates—of which he had been once—would come in from the doors of Abaddon, redeemed through their suffering and made worthy through pain. They would sit, then to the North, they would go into the place where Th3os speaks at the foot of the throne of the Prophet.

In between each of the random segments were LED lines lit with brilliant, electronic life. There was no need for a light in the room because of the glimmering illumination from the kaleidoscopic patterns covering him in photonic resplendence. The flashing light, while distracting in its core nature, now covered him with warmth, almost alleviating the pain that his nervous system screamed into the light.

This bench had been the most peace he’d felt since entering Abaddon some time ago. The numerous lessons, training sessions, forced penance scars, and beatings from those more righteous than the whole had taken their toll on the now slumped-over man. He hung his head, relishing the embrace of the light, which soothed his pain from the inside out. But both hands held his biometric Binary Box.

“Th3os loves the Binary that serves him fully, earning grace with their lives.” Whispering the verse like a prayer never failed to help him relax. Unconsciously, the hand that was stroking the biometrics bar relaxed and let go of the box. The light at the center of the square box now pulsed at a more frequent rate.

CLICK.

The man jumped, sitting upright. The clicking noise was coming from the magnetic locks and automated circuit from the door to the Illuminator’s Throne. The light on the box was still blinking. What does that mean? Is the Canon coming back? Am I going back to Abaddon? Anxiety overtook the man as he now clutched the box to his chest.

Two massive doors swung inward, opening toward a long dark hallway. The man instinctively jumped back, hiding his face from the opening doors. “Th3os Loves the Binary!” he found himself shouting, spewing the verse less as a prayer and more as a plea. “Th3os Loves the Bi—”

A muffled explosion disrupted his mid-sentence. He closed his eyes, bracing for impact, only to realize there wouldn’t be one. Nervously, the man opened his eyes, peering toward flickers of light at the open door leading to the hallway. The light moved closer, as though sentient and human, not Binary.

Curiosity overcame reluctance as he heaved himself up off the bench and moved toward the door. He realized suddenly that the light was coming from a flashlight held in someone’s hand as they ran toward him.

The man took a step forward, turning his head with caution and curiosity. “Hello? Is it time for me?”

His voice was low, with little confidence. He took one more step toward the door. The outline of the running figure grew as the shape ran toward him. The man stood firm but braced himself as the figure did not slow or change direction. It was only then that he realized how long the hall must have been.

The figure, now unshrouded from the dark corridor, burst into view. The man recognized the runner; it was one he knew from Abaddon.

“Randall!” the man shouted, “what’s going on?”

Despite having entered the anteroom, Randall didn’t stop running—and before the man could do anything to prevent it, Randall collided into him with the force of a pro football linebacker. His body hit the wall, upsetting the bench, and then fell limp on the floor.

The last thing he saw before losing consciousness was Randall, who’d briefly knelt beside him. He’d whispered something frantically into the man’s ear before stealing the box and sprinting back out of the anteroom as fast and frenzied as he’d entered it.

Then unconsciousness came.

In what must have been only a few minutes, the man regained consciousness, looking up toward the ceiling of the anteroom. He was lying uncomfortably on the broken pieces of the bench that had given him comfort only a brief time ago. Stumbling to his feet, he looked left, then right. To the left were the doors his assailant had departed through, standing wide open. To the right were the doors to Abaddon, now shut tightly.

The man held his breath and listened. Squinting, he could see a slivering ray of light down the long hall. “Th3os, I trust in you. Let me earn my salvation.” The whispered phrase had been seared into his consciousness in Abaddon. It was now time to see if he was worthy as he walked toward the light.

Then the Sounding Alarm came, amplified in the dark hallway, forcing him to hold his ears. That was the warning sound of Th3os. They had been taught that from day one. It was the sound of evil assaulting the temple; it was a call to arms, summoning the Binary to fight for Th3os.

All the man could do was squat and hold his ears. Feeling a wall at his back, he leaned against it, looking at the light ahead. He could now see that the light was being emitted from the corners of a very large door, which must have been slightly ajar—and most certainly led to the Throne Room of the Illuminator.

The wall to his back vibrated, distracting him. He looked back toward the place where he knew the anteroom should’ve been—it was complete darkness. The vibration he felt through the wall must have been the heavy doors grinding shut.

Still holding his ears against the shrill peel of the alarm, he approached the cracked door and looked through. It was the Throne Room, for sure. However, this must have been the center of the muffled explosion he’d just heard. The room was full of smoke, broken furniture, and settling dust. There were several figures in the room, only one he did recognize. The Canon was now leaning over someone slumped to the side, sitting on the throne, holding their head.

The man squinted to see through the crack but still held his ears, as the alarm was deafening. The Canon was uncharacteristically disheveled, with one side of her long black hair untucked from the normal tight bun. Her hair was sprinkled with white dust and debris. The black jumpsuit she wore during Abaddon was now torn, not from proximity to an explosion, but more like from a fight. She was talking to the man on the throne.

Red-robed men of the Prophet’s Guard poured into the room from seemingly every side, some of them rushing to aid the Canon and the man on the throne.

“Is the Prophet wounded? Can that be?” the man muttered to himself. That’s when the alarm ceased its ominous sound. Silence rolled forth, as dense as a fog. The man leaned in, hands splayed against the door, inching it wider to eavesdrop on the conversation taking place within.

“Go find him! And secure the throne room!” The Canon’s voice was a commanding shriek. Instantly, the red-robed security moved purposefully away, executing her commands.

The man began to move back away from the door, panic suddenly taking flight in his chest. What if they find me? What if they think I did this? What if—

A blue eye from the other side of the door now peered back at him. The man screamed as the door flung open and multiple strong hands seized him.

“No, no, please, help me!” he shouted as they dragged him into the Throne Room.

The Canon moved like an angry leopard towards the security team carrying their new captive.

“Did you aid the evil one? Are you watching to see the results of your sin?” The words from the Canon flowed like poison from her lips. She was now inches from the face of the groveling man who was suspended from the ground by two large, red-robed men.

“No, no, I am loyal to Th3os. I was waiting in the anteroom with my box. The doors opened—” And Randall ran inside, stealing my box, he thought. He didn’t get to finish the sentence, though, because the man on the throne, the Prophet, interjected before he could.

“Bring him before me.”

The Canon’s voice shifted from lethal predator to obedient subject in an instant. “As you wish, my Prophet.” She gestured to one of the red-robed security men, who then dropped the man in front of the Prophet, as he lay slumped to the side on his throne.

The man fell on his knees and prostrated himself in open subservience.

“My Lord, please forgive your servant. I was waiting to get my new name. Please, have mercy!” the man whimpered. From the corner of his eye, he could see the smirk on the face of the Canon who seemingly took joy in his rebuke.

The Prophet heaved himself up off the throne and moved toward the groveling man, leaning down and shifting his gaze toward his subject. Before he entered the Abaddon, he had heard about the man now looking down upon him. It had been said that the purity of Th3os of his gaze from his eyes could kill the uninitiated. Some had dared to investigate the icy, pale blue eyes which reigned judgment on those who were unworthy.

“My child, look at me.” The voice was patient but held a hint of irritation. The groveling man chanced a glance up at the Prophet and had to hold in his surprise. The Prophet held a towel up to the side of his face in a way that suggested he was tending to an injury, but perhaps he was merely cleaning up the mess of somebody else.

“Did Randall do this?” the man asked, daring to peer into the Prophet’s icy blue eyes, now flaring with irritation.

“Did he do what?” The Prophet’s gaze now bore into the groveling man. In pictures the man had seen in the past, before Abaddon, the prophet’s brown but graying hair was neatly parted down the middle of his head and hung perfectly just below his shoulders. Now that pristine hair was matted with so much blood that it nearly eclipsed the natural gray-brown coloring completely. Based on the debris caught in the length of it and the fresh tears in his robe and sacramental garments, the groveling man chanced a look at the scene. From the chaos it was obvious the Prophet had been present for the explosion he’d heard only moments ago.

“I saw him. Randall, that is,” the man clarified. “He hit me and took my box while I waited. Did he destroy the Ex-cathedra of the sacred one? Did he—”

“Wait, you gave away your box? You gave away your Binary identity? You know what the consequences of that would be?” The Canon delivered the curse with an evil smile making the man shiver. It was the second rule in the Binary- Th3os gives you identity and you were to protect it with your life. There were stories of disciples killed for less. The Prophet looked at her and held up his hand with the bloody towel, silencing her. Then he returned to the groveling man.

“My child, stand before me.” The man stood, but still bowed his head shamefully. “Yes, it was the work of the Infidel and the unbeliever formerly known as Randall that attacked us. And the prodigal will be dealt with. However, the purpose of Th3os shall not be stopped by any mortal man.”

“May Th3os be praised.” The Canon’s tone was now reverent.

The Prophet draped the towel over an arm of the throne, then looked back at the man. “Randall is my prodigal. His new name in the Binary is Astoria, the foolish one. You know these words, do you not?”

The man nodded in submission. “Yes, my Prophet.”

“His act will receive no mercy, and you shall be the hand of my vengeance.”

“Yes, my Prophet,” the man said again.

“And your name will be Nagam. You were once Stephen the prodigal yourself, were you not?” At this, the man peered up at the Prophet again. The sight of his piercing, icy gaze was vaguely like being held underwater for too long—they observed less than they held their target captive.

Choking back his shock, the man bowed his head subserviently again. “Yes, my Prophet.”

“You used your skill to steal for your own gain. You sought vengeance on your own terms. You were no different than the Infidel. Now, you use those skills in the name of Th3os. You will be the hand that breaks the bow of the wicked.”

The man looked up with a smile for the first time. “Yes, my Prophet.”

“You will go to Jamaica with Valqua. You will learn from him and carry his burdens. You will use your previous godless hacking skills in support of Valqua for the glory of Th3os. Then, as it was written in the Holy Code, both of you will retrieve the access needed for the Day of Revealing.”

“Thank you, my Prophet.”

The Prophet turned to the Canon. “Prepare him for his mission.”

The Canon nodded.

“My Illuminator, we must address your wounds.” It was a medical Binary in a blue robe.

The Prophet nodded and grunted as he moved toward the man. “Earn your place in the Kingdom of Th3os, my son,” he said to the man on the ground. The man who was no longer nameless. The man who was now Nagam. “The Canon will give you the mark of the Binary, signifying your place in this people.”

Nagam nodded. “Yes, my Prophet. With the will of Th3os to guide me, I will.”

The Prophet nodded and then winced, much to the concern of the blue-robed medical personnel. After the medics left for fear of retribution, the man turned to the Canon, and with a loss of caution, looked deep into her dark, almost-black eyes. In Abaddon, this one act would have been met with higher voltage and a severe penalty, but now it was different. He had received his new name, and she wouldn’t dare challenge him openly. It was hard not to smile as he queried the wicked woman, “Where do I start?”

The Canon returned his gaze with a mixture of disdain and authority. “The Prophet may have released you for your insolence—but through pain, I will teach you the cost of your failure.” Her dark eyes clicked to the guards standing at the room’s exit, and as quick as a cracked whip, she said, “Take him back to Abaddon.”

Nagam’s face froze in disbelief. When the red-robed security Binary came for him, he struggled against them. “No, I made it through! You said I was done! No!”

“You will earn the sign of the Binary. Then you will go to Jamaica and retrieve what the infidel took,” the Canon declared. The man’s screams made the poisonous smile on the Canon’s face grow wider. She then tucked her long raven-black hair back into a bun and prepared to administer the next phase of his purification.