Syd Marduke Vs The religious Right

[Syd]

Syd Marduke Vs The Religious Right
By P. D. Wright



Syd Marduke opened the door and entered the office.
He looked about, then checked out the computer. After several
minutes, he had cracked the security software and pulled up the
classified files.
He frowned in the pale blue glare, turned to the windows, and stared
thoughtfully out them.
He smirked.
He attached his thumb drive to the computer, and transferred a virus
into the mainframe.
Syd exited the room. Behind him, the computer screen displayed error
message after error message, then went blank.
The system had shut down.

The grunge band played at Rockafellows.
Syd banged his bass, as the rhythm rolled out over the crowd. They
throbbed to the beat, swinging their limbs carelessly, heads bopping,
crashing into each other. A sweaty, musty atmosphere pervaded the
club.
Syd smiled.
Harsh lights fell on the scene from above. The amps spread behind the
band like monoliths. Syd wandered to the edge of the stage, and winked
at a Goth-looking girl with purple hair, who smiled.
The song ended, the crowd erupted.
Syd had a tentative handle on the factor.

The purple hair girl removed her fluffy silver coat and set it on the
bed. She sat down on the bed, and Syd leaned forward, and kissed her.
She slipped out of her blouse, then her skirt. Syd stroked her arm,
then her shoulder, finally her neck.
She kissed his cheek, then worked her way down.

The bright moon glared down at the land.
Cloud ticked away in the still gloom.
Bony trees clutched at the inky sky.

Syd opened his eyes in the inky stillness.
He stared at the ceiling, listening to the rhythmic breathing of the
girl beside him.
The temporal field felt wrong.
How it happened, he couldn't say. There were several probabilities,
but none concrete. He sighed.
He glanced at the girl beside him sleeping soundly, wrapped in the
blanket. He moved his arm around her shoulders. She breathed in
deeply, cuddled close to him.
He felt her warmth, letting it flow into him.

Dark clouds raced across the moon.
Flowers spread open, insects ran across the ground.
Rain hit the ground like explosions.
Frost grew on the glass.

The girl opened her eyes, stared at him, and smiled. Syd returned
it, kissed her forehead. She embraced him.
He rolled over onto her.

This Town clicked into Night of the Hawks.
The moon raced across the sky.

The girl's hand clutched at the bed sheets.
The rhythmic rocking of their bodies showed dimly in the inky black
of the room. The girl's energetic exclamations pierced the stillness.
She finally let loose a climatic cry of joy, and both rolled over,
exhausted.
Syd closed his eyes and listened in disinterest to her deep sobbing
breathing.

Syd stood at the window.
The temporal factor was increasing in strength. If it wasn't stopped
soon, they'd have to implement the Quasar Plan.
Total Temporal Overload.
It was a risky move. It could wipe out the gains made since the Time
Central was established, and force the beginning again from scratch.
He was loathed to use it, but might not have any choice.
He finished his cup of Vodka, and turned again to his computer. The
World Map flashed with little red dots. He moved his mouse over one,
and information was displayed.

The Center Of Christian Law was a gaudy, over decorated building that
sat in the middle of Birmingham, Alabama. At the street entrance,
people stood and handed out literature with creepy smiles and glazed
eyes. The founder encouraged the members to "Take America Back For The
Lord Jesus Christ" from omnipresent monitors, in between endless rants
against the 'liberal' ACLA and others that prevented them from forcing
their religion on others.
Syd sat in his car across the street. He was contemptuous of these
kinds of religious people, who had no tolerance or understanding of
other religions, or the motive to even try. They were total
domionist.
He rolled his windows up, and touched the dashboard media player.
Night of the Hawks came blaring out. He leaned back and closed his
eyes.
To the naked eye, or the bully-boy cops expressly assigned to protect
the building, nothing was happening. But, undercurrents stirred,
connections began, questions formed.
The song ended, and Syd drove off, blowing a kiss to one of the bully-
boy cops who watched with dull, unintelligent, evil eyes. He sneered,
vowing to beat up that 'queer' when he returned.

Next week, Syd again was outside the center.
As he unwrapped his hamburger, the bully-boy cop started to cross the
street. Syd smiled, started Psychedelic Warriors.
The cops reached the car, and knocked on the window. Syd smiled,
rolled the window down.
"Problem, officer?" he asked.
"Your license." The cop was contemptuous. His hand was on his club.
Syd smiled again, used the remote to increase the volume. The cop
jerked up straight, stared at him with dull eyes frozen in a trance,
then he marched back across the street mechanically. Cars pulled up
short, horns blared at him. He reached the building, leaned against
the gate.
Syd ate his hamburger in peace. He felt the undercurrents doing there
thing.
The song ended, and Syd started the engine. The cop snapped out of
the trance, and started back across the street. His club was in his
hand, and ready for use.
Syd blew him a kiss as he drove off.

Syd was driving down a country road. The thick black night was heavy
with character. The beams from his headlights cut only a few feet
ahead.
It's everything but party time blared from the speakers.
He sighed. He was low on energy.
Syd turned down a side road in order to avoid the main highway. He
drove on in silence, listening to the radio.
The moon glowed in the sky.
The tires ground into the dirt road. Behind him, a pair of headlights
suddenly appeared.
Syd looked into his mirror with surprise.
He thrusts the gas peddle down. The car leapt forward like a rushing
bull, kicking up clouds up dirt. The other car accelerated to keep
up.
Syd rolled his eyes, switched on the Akira soundtrack, and again
pressed the gas peddle. He was going far above the legal speed limit.
The other car kept pace.
He made a turn, and sped on. He coughed in the thick dust cloud. The
other car duplicated the maneuver clumsily.
Syd started to make another wild turn when he heard a sharp bang. His
tire exploded. He lost control, and panicked as he headed into a tree.
He made a sharp turn and only barely missed hitting it.
The other car pulled up beside Syd's wrecked car. Several men in red
clergy robes bundled out and inspected their work. Syd lay on the
steering wheel. One placed a hand on his neck.
"He's alive," the Bishop said. "Quickly, let's get him out."
They pulled his bulky frame from the wreck, panting and groaning
under the unaccustomed weight, and loaded him into their car.
With a screech of tires, they pulled off into the inky night.

The house they arrived at was ancient. It had been built in the 18th
century and had survived incidents and conflicts to this day, though
it was, understandably, worse for wear.
The clergy bundled Syd into the ancient edifice, past two large
windows that kept sentry over the land.
The interior exuded a musty smell as they entered, dragging him into
the spacious front hall, overdone in fading red paneling. Bright art
objects shone on the walls. Sculptures gleamed white in the thin
light. Several wooden tables and chairs dotted the room. A mirror hung
over a fireplace.
In front of Syd stepped the arch-bishop in the full uniform of his
office. He smiled fiendishly, raised his staff, and put it under Syd's
chin. He then raised Syd's face to peer into.
"So, this is the terrorist?" He was contemptuous.
Silence fell.
Eventually, the arch-bishop said, "Take this heretic to the holding
area. We'll decide his fate later."
The clergy saluted, and then dragged him from the room.


The Bishops dragged Syd into a cell. It was little more then a series
of steel poles in front of a bare brick wall. A concrete floor was the
final component. They tossed him in, and slammed the door. They stood
and glared at him.
"You'll stay here until the Arch-Bishop can deal with you," one said.
The other walked off. Syd simply stayed where he had fallen.
Despair had settled over him.
How was he going to get out of this?
The room shook.
The Bishop looked after his companion, hesitated.
More shaking.
A voice yelled, "The Islamists are attacking! Everyone take cover!
Take cover!"
"Too bad for you," the Bishop sneered. Then, he dashed off. Syd was
alone.
He sighed, rolled over into a sitting position. His despair was a
black cloud that had settled over him. He heard shouting, gunfire.
What was going on?
His left hand struck the floor with a hollow thud.
He looked at it, then dropped it again. The sound was repeated. He
dropped his right hand to the floor. It produced a solid smack. He
bent over the area where the hollow sound had occurred. He traced a
finger around it, and found the shape of the trap door. It was shaped
like a brick, and had a hollow in the head.
He reached down, and carefully lifted it up. As he did, he heard the
sound of running feet, coming his way. Voices yelled to "Get the
assassin! Hurry! Before the Islamist do!"
He peered into the hole, saw only pitch black. He overcame his fears,
and slipped in. He then reached up and replaced the block.
As it settled, the Bishops ran in. They skidded to a halt, and
surveyed the scene. They uttered some most unholy language.
"Find him! Quick!" The Arch-Bishop was livid. At his command, the
Bishops scattered to search the house.

Syd stood in a circular brick tunnel that was just high enough for
him to stand up. It smelled of mold and decay. It should have been
pitch-black, but mold grew on the walls, and these gave out a
luminousness that was just enough to see.
Syd stood and considered. The lake should be west of this house. So
the tunnel in front of him should lead that way. With this in mind, he
started up it.

The Arch-Bishop was furious.
There had been no sign of the assassin for hours. They had searched
every inch, but nothing had been found.
And the Islamists were nearly inside the house.

Syd leaned against the wall.
He had been traveling for many hours, and had not yet found the end.
He wondered if he'd gotten his calculations wrong. If he did, it was
too late now. He couldn't go back. He sighed. He'd just have to leave
it to fate.
He stood, and resumed his lonely trek.

Time had lost all meaning.
Syd hugged himself. The utter gloom of the place was getting to him.
The sooner he found the exit, the better. A spider crawled back up its
web.
Syd ducked away from it, and quickly moved on.
His feet were killing him.
He stopped, and sniffed the air. A new smell had appeared. He
recognized it after a fashion.
He smiled. He started to run towards it.
Early morning light appeared just ahead.
He stopped a few feet from the mouth. He stood and listened.
Except for the dull roar of the lake, no other sound reached him. He
carefully approached the concrete mouth of the tunnel and peered out.
In front of him was the lake. Its restless surface was devoid of
crafts.
To his left and right were sheer rock walls that rose many feet into
the morning air. Thin paths stretched out at their base.
Syd sighed, started down the left path. After several feet, it began
to climb, until it emptied into a small wooded area. Syd tread
carefully over the moss covered ground, the thick grass, the dark
trees. He attempted to make as little noise as possible. He stopped
near a little clearing.
In it, stood a copter. It was being fueled by a man in clerical garb.
Beyond stood a small shack. Through a window, he saw the Clergy
gathered there in front of a TV. They appeared to be masturbating.
Syd snuck up behind the fueling man, and struck him on the head with
a handy piece of wood. He fell down like a sack.
Syd entered the copter, checked the instruments. It had a full tank,
and was ready for launch. He smiled. He activated the power, then feed
some to the rotor. As he did so, the Clergy came running out. They
were smoothing stained robes as they ran.
Syd gave them the single-finger salute, and applied power to the
motor. The chopper took off smoothly. The Clergy stood on the ground,
shouting threats and promises.
Syd took the opportunity to buzz them a couple of times, before he
set course for home.

Syd stood by the Kroger's in Irmo.
Around him, buildings were in flames, bullet echoed from corners. He
wiped his forehead and looked around.
The governor had declined badly needed aid earmarked for South
Carolina. The citizens had risen and had traded shots with the forces
that remained loyal to Stanfirm. The civil war had nearly decimated
the midlands, but the governor was slowly losing his support among the
peace-keeping forces. He sighed.
The state economy was in the toilet, and the governor was stubbornly
refusing all aid, under the pretence of 'Not adding to the debt'.
Meanwhile, more and more agencies were closing, leaving people without
support.
Syd took aim at a guerrilla, and shot him.
He then ran to back of the building, and shot a National Guard
member.
"There's the heretic," came from behind him, followed by several
gunshots. He turned and ran.
It was the clergy, aligned with several fundamentalist groups, still
after him.
He sighted along his gun, took out a heavy set preacher in an olive
suit with glasses. The others scattered for cover.
He smirked, took the opportunity to dash across the road, into the
recess ground of Irmo elementary, cross that, and finally reached
Woodrow Street. He stopped to rest under the cover of a gutteded
McDonald's. Inside, he bought cheap hamburger.

Later, he was racing down the street, passing several shopping
centers, burning trees, Crossroads middle school, lots of abandoned
vehicles, and snipers.
He took shelter in the gutted hulk of Irmo University, slipping
inside unobserved. He slipped from shadow to shadow, running past
glowing windows, and down smoking halls. He stopped at the library.
Inside, he went to a covered desk, and put his head down on the
polished wood.
He felt another sense of deja vu.

He lifted his head at the sounds of footsteps.
Slowly, Syd got to his feet, making as little noise as he could. He
peered out the wall-sized windows. He made out shapes moving up the
hall, towards him. Soon, they resolved themselves into a party of
Catholic Clergy, protestant fundamentalists, and other extreme
religious types. They turned the corner in front of the library, and
made for the office. Two large burly men took positions on either side
of the door.
Syd smiled.
He moved slowly towards the door, keeping to the shadows, and his
eyes on the guards. In the entrance hall, he pulled his ancient
needler from his jacket. He waited.
Then, he dashed into the hall, and, as the guards raised their guns,
he dropped them with two quick shots. He stepped over them, and peered
into the principals' office at the wildly gesturing shadows.
In his hand appeared a grenade. He bounced it in his hand as the
gesturing grew more frantic.
Syd pulled the pin, tossed it through the window.
The shadows yelled, ran for the door.
The resulting explosion echoed in the halls all through the school.
Syd stood outside in the parking lot, listening to the dying echoes.
He smiled.

Syd walked into the grounds of his Harbison home.
He'd managed to duck the various guerrillas by cutting through the
woods and going cross country. It had been tough going, and he was
exhausted.
Inside, he opened a panel in the front closet and activated the
house's defenses. Then, he went upstairs to take a shower. He let the
cool, clear water roll over. He was glad his reserves were still
working.
Later, he stood on the upper story balcony staring at the desolate
road. He had on a white bathrobe. His long brown hair was slicked back
with the water. His glass was filled with rum.
The road below had floating papers blowing across it. Trash heaps
littered the corner.
He sipped the rum, deliberating.

-End