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www.republicofinfidels.com

Republic of Infidels - Book I - the Remains
Excerpt

“It was Miryam who recruited you,” Vikram said softly. “That much is obvious by your choice of weapon. But I would like to know when that occurred. And who else she’s corrupted in Taaj.”

  Orsine smiled even more broadly, this time showing her bloodied teeth and gums. She laughed, her usually sweet high voice made thick by the shortened tongue that sat swollen in her mouth. She’d bitten it off in the crash. She was helpless to answer his questions, even if she’d wanted to.

  “Why?” he demanded, knowing she would give him nothing more than a grin. “You think you’re going to get some eternal reward?”
He turned and ranged around the cell, taking a deep breath. Then he turned to look at her, and reached into his pocket where he kept a ball point pen. There was nothing special about it, it was just an ordinary ballpoint pen, blue, the ink halfway used. It had the United Nations logo on it, one of several pens from the office that had worked its way into the family junk drawer.

  Vikram wasn’t really sure why he’d kept it, since he rarely wrote things down. His memory provided him with a nearly flawless record. Just as it provided him with a flawless record of his father’s exhausted face, the expression he’d worn the last time Vikram had seen him alive. And now he remembered his father’s body pulled tight in on itself, catching fire as Sergei and Arnaud dragged the girl away.
    Now she smiled her secret smile at him, unafraid. She affected to be like Miryam, but Miryam’s gaze held the conviction of wrath, and Vikram had found something to respect in that even if he reviled her. This one was a vapid, pious shadow. A groupie.
    “You were such a bright little thing,” Vikram observed as he summoned the memory of her, once a shy child, later a vivacious young girl. Now, this.
    “I could have you write your answers,” he said, showing her the pen. “Then maybe you could tell me why. Why you betrayed us. Why you turned on people who never meant you anything but good.”
    She looked at the pen, and her smile dimmed a little, though a steady stream of blood was still dripping from the corner of her mouth. Vikram twisted the pen in his fingers, feeling the octagonal shape of it, something ordinary, familiar.
    When he looked up, he saw that Orsine was weeping. Not tears of regret. Rather she had lifted her eyes heavenward like a Renaissance painting of one of the lord’s own on the threshold of martyrdom.
    “You’re right,” Vikram agreed, as though she had answered his question with some reasonable defence. “There are no answers. The story doesn’t matter. It won’t change anything. It won’t bring anyone back.”
    He closed the distance so that he was almost nose to nose with her, could smell her burned, cooked face, could smell the coppery scent of her blood. She met his eyes with her own, clear grey, and suddenly he could see the hate there. The loathing. The utter, bottomless contempt, set against the arrogance of the true believer. She was saved, everyone else was damned, and so it was right and good that she had murdered his father.
    “What do you see?” he whispered, feeling the tension of violence running through him now. “Do you see golden light flooding from heaven’s gates as they open to embrace you? Look at me.”
    She turned her head, and now he could tell the blood loss was really affecting her, because she was growing pale as he watched. It made her grey eyes even brighter as they rolled, and finally met his.
    “It’s a lie, Orsine,” he assured her. “There’s nothing but darkness.”

Description
www.republicofinfidels.com

Republic of Infidels - Book I - the Remains
Excerpt

“It was Miryam who recruited you,” Vikram said softly. “That much is obvious by your choice of weapon. But I would like to know when that occurred. And who else she’s corrupted in Taaj.”

  Orsine smiled even more broadly, this time showing her bloodied teeth and gums. She laughed, her usually sweet high voice made thick by the shortened tongue that sat swollen in her mouth. She’d bitten it off in the crash. She was helpless to answer his questions, even if she’d wanted to.

  “Why?” he demanded, knowing she would give him nothing more than a grin. “You think you’re going to get some eternal reward?”
He turned and ranged around the cell, taking a deep breath. Then he turned to look at her, and reached into his pocket where he kept a ball point pen. There was nothing special about it, it was just an ordinary ballpoint pen, blue, the ink halfway used. It had the United Nations logo on it, one of several pens from the office that had worked its way into the family junk drawer.

  Vikram wasn’t really sure why he’d kept it, since he rarely wrote things down. His memory provided him with a nearly flawless record. Just as it provided him with a flawless record of his father’s exhausted face, the expression he’d worn the last time Vikram had seen him alive. And now he remembered his father’s body pulled tight in on itself, catching fire as Sergei and Arnaud dragged the girl away.
    Now she smiled her secret smile at him, unafraid. She affected to be like Miryam, but Miryam’s gaze held the conviction of wrath, and Vikram had found something to respect in that even if he reviled her. This one was a vapid, pious shadow. A groupie.
    “You were such a bright little thing,” Vikram observed as he summoned the memory of her, once a shy child, later a vivacious young girl. Now, this.
    “I could have you write your answers,” he said, showing her the pen. “Then maybe you could tell me why. Why you betrayed us. Why you turned on people who never meant you anything but good.”
    She looked at the pen, and her smile dimmed a little, though a steady stream of blood was still dripping from the corner of her mouth. Vikram twisted the pen in his fingers, feeling the octagonal shape of it, something ordinary, familiar.
    When he looked up, he saw that Orsine was weeping. Not tears of regret. Rather she had lifted her eyes heavenward like a Renaissance painting of one of the lord’s own on the threshold of martyrdom.
    “You’re right,” Vikram agreed, as though she had answered his question with some reasonable defence. “There are no answers. The story doesn’t matter. It won’t change anything. It won’t bring anyone back.”
    He closed the distance so that he was almost nose to nose with her, could smell her burned, cooked face, could smell the coppery scent of her blood. She met his eyes with her own, clear grey, and suddenly he could see the hate there. The loathing. The utter, bottomless contempt, set against the arrogance of the true believer. She was saved, everyone else was damned, and so it was right and good that she had murdered his father.
    “What do you see?” he whispered, feeling the tension of violence running through him now. “Do you see golden light flooding from heaven’s gates as they open to embrace you? Look at me.”
    She turned her head, and now he could tell the blood loss was really affecting her, because she was growing pale as he watched. It made her grey eyes even brighter as they rolled, and finally met his.
    “It’s a lie, Orsine,” he assured her. “There’s nothing but darkness.”