Chapter 1

"The house of the Lord which King Solomon built in New Jerusalem. Let he without sin cast the first stone."

An earsplitting invitation to a stoning this early in the morning. Ye gods. I stopped and waited as the Blood Monk's words dispelled throughout the square before relaxing. Not that he'd care he had completely ruined my sleepy walk but I'd even left early this morning for senior ecclesiastical school, and taken a short cut, so I could dawdle. Half-asleep, half-aware, half-arsed.

Now that my peace had been shot to shards, I settled on studying the Monk instead. Must be serious. He had all the official clobber on. A blood red habit and a large silver cross encrusted with green gem stones hung around his neck and on his waist a black rope belt circled a well-stuffed belly and lodged in the belt, an electroprod. In New Jerusalem a stroll often turns into a death sentence for some cursed soul.

True, I could have moved on before the crowds blocked the streets, but shamefully, it drew me in, captured my attention, and soon my irritation at being stopped subsided. Sweet smokey incense poured from the Blood Monk's swinging thurible locking me to the spot. The smell reminded me of my mother when she lighted joss sticks at night in my room to calm me before sleep. Days that had long gone, now.

And now I sensed the atmosphere in the square and on the near-by city streets change. I felt a shift from the ordinary business of day to the primal frenzy of the pack animal. It had the same fevered intoxication of when a fight breaks out at school and the pupils gather in about three seconds of the news being passed to their ear via the shielded mouths of fellow teens. It had that kind of feel.

As with every stoning, my gut tightened, pulsed, while the assembling crowd gossiped and whispered falsehoods and guessed at the sins of the accused man before them. Ordinarily few people saw the early morning but now the spectacle of retribution brought them on to the streets. The mumbles from the gathering spectators grew louder and more confident.

Suddenly, I felt a push in the back, a sigh and then the low autumnal sun appeared from behind a cloud, caught me in the face and turned my world a bright yellow. I rubbed my eyes and blinked. A growing line of wannabe stokers desperate to be chosen for casting the first stones shuffled from foot to foot, waved their arms in hope of being noticed by the Blood Monk, stabbed pointed fingers towards the sinner, and threw abuse.

"Pagan scum," they shouted. "Hell bound heretic."

The crowd in the square now spilled onto the road, a real gathering of the ghoulish. And how they bayed for vengeance. Was it to absolve their own wretched sins?

"In the year 1005 After The First Holy Messenger, the charged sinner you see before you has offended the Lord and his conduit on earth, the Most High Messenger Incarnate. Praise high his name."

I rubbed my eyes again and looked at the wretched creature cowering beneath the iron railings, pressed against the Temple's perimeter wall. Stripped of his clothes, fresh crimson lash marks streaked his back and reminded me of the twigs I arranged haphazardly on the ground when I built a fire in the woods. The still wet blood glistened and slowly trickled down his round back.

Arranged in a semi-circle around the sinner, the chosen stokers, sinless in their own heads, now jostled for front row positions and in their hands boulders of varying shapes and sizes were itching for flight.

"This man is beyond redemption. A pagan pig not fit for God's own country of New Jerusalem. Evil multiplies like a cancer. If prayer and faith fail to stop that cancer then it must be removed. We do this in the name of the Lord and every god fearing parishioner."

The Blood Monk lowered his head and prayed. The cowering accused, already balled and steeled, looked out, pressed harder against the wall and shivered. His wide, fiery eyes popped with fear. His poor situation reminded me of a biblical quote, one of those few quotes my school mates, mostly us boys, would cackle at, "Therefore, behold, I will bring evil uponthehouse of Jeroboam, and will cut off from Jeroboam him that pissethagainstthewall." After a few moments the Monk roared again.

"May the Lord have mercy on this hell bound heretic's soul." He took a deep calming breath. "Begin. God wills it."

"Keep it down a bit," I whispered to myself, "We're not all as deaf as old Local Pastor Godion."

The woman beside me shook her head. "Do you want to be next?" she said.

Recoiling further, the half naked sinner turned his face to the wall, and curling tighter into a smaller ball he hardened his muscles against the inevitable. I watched mesmerized as he swayed in a multitude of directions like he was dancing to his own strange hypnotic music.

The Blood Monk joined the mob and taking a stone from a basket on the ground he hurled the first missile. The stone landed on the man's hunched back. A thud jolted me. The man yelped like a puppy. I grimaced

and closed my eyes, then I peeked between my fingers just as a shower of stones arced through the air.

Some missed but such was the mob's experience most were a direct hit. One particularly large boulder struck the man on the side of his face forcing his head against the wall. I heard a crack and flinched, almost feeling the man's pain myself. He slumped lower. Fresh ammunition rained down. The lash marks disappeared beneath new bloody wounds, and without respite, more stones poured down and pounded his body. The faces of the stokers were set in wild satisfaction. Now his skull had cracked. I saw the dirty white of his brain. My stomach contracted but nothing came up and only then was I able to thank the Holy Messenger for lousy rations.

"Ave, suet asinus?"

My body stiffened because I knew immediately who it was without turning round. I recognized instantly that deep baritone voice of a teenage boy who'd reached puberty far too soon. An absolute giveaway and I should have known Cosmin Bale would be skulking around at a gory public spectacle

like this.

"Well, I was fine." I didn't feel nervous today in a crowded space. Even if it hadn't been, he'd never had real power over me. If anything I felt superior to him. Something approaching pity. I said, "You never really get used to this, do you? What did I hear once from old Gad, 'they strive to be angels but end up

beasts.' Was that it?" I swept my around over the square. "Look at their faces. I've seen hundreds. I assume you take great pleasure in it all."

Some looked on Cosmin as a bully, but I saw him more as an annoyance, like a strong and healthy fly stuck in your bedroom. Just when you think it's flown from the room you feel light, ticklish legs on your skin and the untraceable, annoying buzz. He burned a kids sandal shoes last week. With the kids feet still in them. I don't know how he gets away with it. Must be a snitch. Disorder out of order, thatwas his shtick.

"Feisty today for a nondescript." He pushed me in the back. There it was. The threat of violence.

Never far away when an oversized moro such as Cosmin had to stamp his superior strength on the situation and signal his will to use it. He was strong, I had to give him that, so much so I stumbled forward. Not to be discouraged, I corrected my stance and stood straight and tall, refusing to turn and face him. That would anger him. That would make him feel insignificant, the most dreaded emotion.

"And this is meant to be an advanced society," I said. "Look out our technology for Baalim's sake. You can't move without a flying Judas spying on you. I'm sure there's more than there used to be. From these displays you'd think we were backward Djinns."

"Do not offend the Lord," he snapped. "Our Lay Deaconess would be very interested to hear you speak like that. Using a false God like Baalim. An instant black mark for you."

"What was his sin?" I said, nodding towards the dead heretic, and bringing the topic back round. Cosmin's favorite, the sin's of others. "An Immaculate, I suppose?"

"Yea, laying with another man they say. My mum knows him. She says it's not true. But if it is, God mend him. They're all filthy scum those Immaculates. You know they take all the homes on the east side and we can't get one. We need to stay in Celestial Towers with you lot from South Jericho. Full of non-descripts. If they didn't offend doctrine then this wouldn't happen. They sow their own seeds. We need to get rid of a few."

Sounded like his dad speaking. The crowds began to disperse.

"I'm was born in SoJo."

"Exactly," he said, smiling at his own brilliance.

He wouldn't have guessed I set him up for it. How vanity blinds. He must have had enough of talking to the back of my head, because next he put his hand on my shoulder and forced me round. I put up no fight and when I turned, what a fright I got. His face. More specifically, his upper lip. Something dark and sinister lay there. Not quite a mustache, more like a thin dark eyebrow. I almost laughed before choking it back. He must have sensed that.

"I know you're a goody-goody, Jah, a bonum. The white mark kid. I've even heard some of the mothers call your a cherub. Fat enough for it, anyway. But I'll find something on you. We all have black marks, eh? Even the most righteous."

"Not I," I said dramatically."I have the same burden of sin as that trigger happy mob of stokers."

He wouldn't have got the nuance, the subtlety, the irony and I didn't have the inclination, nor the time, to explain it.

"Are you disrespecting the good and righteous hearts of our brothers and sisters of New Jerusalem?" He smelled a rat. " I hope not. Now clear off."

He kicked ground dust at my jumpsuit. "You bore me. Redemption thro' suffering. Tandem, discite, servus. The school motto. Remember, dumbus."

"Not suffering dished out by you." I tilted my head at the Temple wall. "He didn't have much time to redeem himself."

"His sin was too great and too late. The Lord will judge him now."

I brushed away the dust from my trousers. "Watch the uniform," I said. "Well, it's been nice chatting."

"Not for me," he said. He started to walk away but then stopped and swiveled his head to the side. "I'm always watching. Not just me, the Parish Witness, remember. The Auto-de-fe. Good luck with that."

Cosmin had had his Auto-de-fe only last week. He had returned exactly the same person as he had left which was not surprising really. He'd do anything for his clerical masters. I'd seen him casting stones before when he wasn't authorized, so I assumed he passed the Auto with flying colors.

Usually I could stomach a stoning. I'd seen plenty. Sometimes the Senior Ecclesiastical School in the parish took us on a trip to the stoning stations to witness a particularly wicked or infamous, or high ranking heretic pay the ultimate price for deviation. Then there were impromptu stonings like today, where more than likely the sinner was pulled from his bed, charged if three or more witnesses damned him, and then without further ado thrown against the wall and stoned.

But recently I had other worries on my mind, and the stoning had deeply effected me, and Cosmin had planted a seed and he well knew it. Not so much a seed but a grain of sand in my head, a tiny grain collecting other grains which over time grew to the size of a boulder mercilessly splitting my head open, and dragging me lower and lower, just like the poor stoned man whose awful suffering had only managed to amplify my own.

If I were late for ecclesiastical school that was one thing, a category E sin at worst, a minor black mark, but this would be nothing compared to the consequences of failing the Auto-de-fe that hung over me like a death sentence, perhaps literally.

My friend Dorin had told me things, things that his all-seeing, mysterious Uncle had told him. His Uncle said the psychological analysts of the Holy Order had discovered where in the brain a fear or threat memory is stored, so this made it possible for the Witnesses to erase the network of neurons that make up the memory. So this meant no-one could remembered what happened at the Autos. And this secrecy when the Parish Witness came knocking was the scariest thing of all for it meant you couldn't prepare like you could an elementary miracles or a holy scripture test at school.

On top of this, there were the few children that never returned. They were few but enough in number to worry about. Most of the missing were from SoJo so no-one really cared that much.

'Safe under the guise of the Lord', they cryptically, and unhelpfully, told us. 'Love the Lord and all will be well.'

I liked to think the non-returners went north or east to the heathen lands as warrior missionaries armed with guns and bibles, enlisted to convert the Djinns, by bomb or by book, to a just life. And in my mind this was the least worst option. But I had to confess I feared they never returned because they were no longer with us and when I thought about it, it felt like a virus had invaded my body. At once hot and sweaty, then cold and shivery. I tried to divert my thoughts.

Thankfully, I heard the electric crackle of a hovering eyeball, a spying, flying Judas, fizzing above the heads of the dispersing mob and alerting me to the time. I wondered if it had been scanning me. I didn't delay, so I hauled my rear onward before the death truck arrived to take the sinner for incineration.

Walking as fast as I could without actually running, I started to think of what Cosmin had said about the Immaculates and it made me feel that maybe it was a good thing the many accused were taken from that group, who without family ties, or friends in most cases, and who appeared, seemingly, out of thin air and dropped suddenly into society because, essentially, no-one was left to miss them.

"They don't integrate." I could hear the hushed words come from the doorways of my neighbors. "Secretive. What are they up to? What are they hiding? What do they want? Our homes, our food."

They were hated for no particular reason I could see and blamed for every bad thing that befell us, from the weather to a heathen bomb, to the death of a Bishop. I always thought it to be a distraction from the real problems we suffered.

Still, having no history somehow made it fairer than if the victim had grown up in New Jerusalem. I ran the rest of the way to school being stopped only once by a succession of crazy Flagellants with leather straps and birch branches seeking atonement. I knew way easier methods of showing devotion. They should shuffle in my direction for some holy counsel. Hush hush of course. When they passed I started to run again.

The Third School of the Blessed St. Gemma was the finest Senior Ecclesiastical School in the entire parish of New South Jericho. This was what we had been told often enough and this is what we had to believe. We had been told of its illustrious history, of its celebrated past alumni, of its high exam results and scholarly achievements, and castigated in equal measures because of our distinct lack of gratitude for attending such a fine establishment. Our attitude was plain, so said the lay clergy of the school, for all to see, from the lowliest Lay Councilor to the highest ranking Archbishop at The Council of Elders. If our gratitude was measured in blood it wouldn't have been enough.

I arrived at the gates to this wondrous establishment sucking at the air like a landed fish, all sweaty and in need of a good lie down. Being out of shape it was constant miracle to me how I made it on time any morning. Also, I had to wait for my sister Cami to leave in the mornings, my mum liked it that way, 'safer,' she'd say, and Cami was invariably late to leave. We always ditched each other as soon as we were round the corner of Celestial Towers, and out of view of the window my mother watched from, and then I'd sleepily saunter the rest of the way until I realized the time. Then the inevitable sprint. I must have liked it like that. But Cami had been going to the Temple recently, in preparation for her hallowing, so I left the block when I wanted. Still rushed, though, and I couldn't even blame Cami anymore.

Through tears of exhaustion I made out the figure of St. Gem's Moral's Proctor waiting stiffly at the gate counting the children as they passed on their way into the school courtyard. Most days the School Warden, essentially a Proctor's spy, ushered us in without fuss, though, on occasions, to keep us on our toes, the Moral's Proctor took charge. He was a small man, stern and the few words he spoke were drab and monotone. He'd be a good sleep aid, right enough. He was friendly in a remote way, even so, 'don't be fooled,' Cami had told me, 'he wouldn't think twice before putting you under the lash'. He knew my father so he talked to me. Old David's Mighty Warriors buddies.

"You have made it on time, Jah. Ave. And at a cost," he said referring, I think, to my extreme panting and on fire face. "Lucky for you. Don't want to tarnish that unblemished record, do we?"

"No, Sir," I said. "Not if I want to make the military Priesthood." Which I didn't. Not in a million years, which made me wonder if my answer was a lie or merely a statement of fact? Surely a just God would understand when he takes the time to sift through the files in my mind. "I was distracted by a morning stoning and a troop of flagellants on their knees, Minister Carlberg. They move as slow as snails."

His face was unreadable. Implacable. Never certain if the man had the ability for emotion for he never showed it in his body language, only ever moving when he needed to get somewhere, or indeed, in his language language either.

"Fifteen next week. Time for your Auto-de-fe," he said, as if I didn't know. "A boy of such good faith like yourself need not worry. Then I can be your Candidacy Mentor. But if not, don't fret. We are just to those who fail. "

I didn't believe him and failure for me was worse than the fires of hell. If he knew the truth he wouldn't be saying I was a boy of good faith. It's true I sinned little, the most minor of sins at worst, and it was true I had no particularly evil thoughts of which I had to confess and my dreams were fairly boring, that's if I could remember them, and not especially of the flesh. And on the occasions a schoolmate, ora young ordained sister, did creep into my dreams I could put this down to temptations from the Devil.

But there was something bigger than all this put together; one all-consuming issue that transcended any minor sin. Did I even believe in God's existence? A question that was not permitted, to put it lightly, in a society that blurs any distinction between reality, faith, ever-lasting life and creation. And if they found this out at the Auto-de-fe then it could be goodnight, sweet angel, from me.

"How's your father?" he said.

"Fine, I think. Still suffering a bit from the old injury. Talks a lot about it."

"Brave man your father, a true Brother. Together we guarded His Holy Messenger at the First Temple and the Sanctified Palace. Guardsmen in David's Mighty Warriors. Not mere Numen's Army Corps soldiers I'll have you know."

Did he really think I didn't know or was he so self-obsessed he just didn't care.

"So I've heard," I said. "My father has mentioned it a few times before."

Like a hundred million times.

"Saved an assassination attempt on His Holiness. In his personal quarters at the Temple, no less. Why they try to kill an immortal figure protected by god is beyond me. Only the Lord can take a Messenger in the rapture, as you well know, Jah. Nonetheless, your father dealt with such evil efficiently and was honored for it. Received a seal of Solomon medal, I believe."

I nodded like it was news. Thank goodness the horn sounded.

"Off you go," he said, "and give a blessing to your father from me. May God guard you."

"Fine engineer, too," I heard him mutter as I pushed my way into the schoolyard.

The schoolyard teemed with chattering children, most younger than me though a few seniors marched around like they owned the place. I was in my penultimate year, a brown jumpsuit pointed this out, and I found myself in the strange position of being inferior and superior to my schoolmates at the same time and I didn't find it comfortable.

The schoolyard was one of the few chances we got to talk freely, so long as flying Judas hadn't dropped in for an eavesdrop, and it was the place we let down our guard. Once inside the school proper, talk was restricted to cliche and hidden meaning, covered mouths and whispers, although that was getting harder. Kids were being pulled in and lashed for covering. The school was littered with sitting Judases. Eyes and ears everywhere.

The irony of our unheard schoolyard chat was not lost on me even if it was on my fellow brothers and sisters. It had always struck me as odd that we gossiped and spilled the dirt while gathered around a giant statue of the Holy Messenger Incarnate himself. The leader of the Holy Order, no less, and the man our private thoughts were most hidden from. If only that statue had had microphone ears.

In the center of the schoolyard and in front of the main entrance, our holy Leader and Guardian rose tall on the smoothest of white marble plinths and stood proud like a God. He had been sculpted with a puffed out chest, whittled with a narrow waist and his hands had been fashioned in prayer, palm to palm, and his eyes had been left closed in reverence and directed heavenwards. He wore a kethoneth and a simlah draped his shoulders.

I'd seen him at home on the spectrospiel before many times and he wasn't as thin or as tall as this statue suggested. He stood upright now but, in reality, he was lame since childhood. On the show Miracles Tonight that they broadcast on the spectrospiel every Sunday evening after service, the Messenger channeled the Lord's power and healed those with disease and disabilities. On the day of Judgment, he shall heal himself, or so it goes, and New Jerusalem shall take its rightful place as God's own country, or so it goes.

A memory came unlocked in my head. It was late last night and I was lying awake in bed. Why did God, I had thought, or Jesus for that matter when he roamed the earth, not cure lameness completely if they had the power. Why leave some lame at all? Surely that would make more sense from an all powerful, just Creator. But saddest times, this would remain my own personal dilemma for to ask my lay deaconess such an anti-doctrine question would bring penance at best, and at worst, a report to the Moral's Proctor and then maybe an appearance in front of the Council of Elders. And that was bad.

"Salve, obesus amicus?"

Twice in one morning, that had to be a record. This insult was not from Cosmin Bale, however, this came from my friend Dorin Levine except his remark was weightier with irony and jokier in tone. I smiled as he approached. His much admired sister, Anat, to put it nicely, stood at the Messenger's stony feet talking with friends. The horn sounded again. We had to go inside now.

"Not too bad," I fibbed. Only a white one.

"Liar," he said. "There's always something wrong with you. You worry for New Jerusalem."

We pushed through a throng of pupils and under the black marble cross above the school entrance. Next to the gold and black double pennant of the Messenger we stopped. The voices of my fellow brothers and sisters would drown us out here as they continued to cram through the doors. Irrespective of the bustle, the sitting Judas next to the double pennant might still pick us up. Couldn't risk it.

"I need to talk to you after school," I whispered, placing a hand above my mouth to evade eavesdroppers. I feigned a cough. "I found something really strange I need to show you. Out of this world, even."

"I'm intrigued," Dorin lipped back with his head angled. " But don't act weird today. No changed behavior remember. At the hanging tree?"

"Where else?" I said.

"Cough some more, you're covering."

We walked inside, crossing ourselves as we passed over the threshold with me coughing like I had some plague.

At St. Gemma's Ecclesiastical School lay-deacons and lay-deaconesses taught the day to day classes while the Elder Sisters, who were all hallowed to the church, oversaw the smooth running of the school and gave lessons on morals, christian eschatology and parable interpretation. They were more than happy to administer violent penance. The Elder Brothers oversaw practical skills in woodcraft, survival and self-defense and tended to be slightly more forgiving, yet only slightly. The Guardian of Morals, or Morals Proctor Minister Carlberg, was headmaster and the man who would decide on fitting retribution for a pupil who digressed from taught behavior. He had the power to refer someone to a Parish Witness.

For scripture all ages of pupil mixed in the same class, The lay-deaconess teacher that taught my class was called Novice Magdalene because of her special blessing. And boy was she special, and not in the way the church meant. A description of cruel would be unfair because of her robotic demeanor. Unfair to robots that is. She was even more mechanical than the automated clerics on each street corner. I was fairly certain she was made of flesh and blood but apart from this, normal descriptions of human character did not apply. Who gives a robot a set of characteristics?

Not only this, but adding to her mechanized demeanor, her hair never moved, it sat rigid on her head like a plastic helmet. Every day her face was the same powder white and she never reddened even in anger, which was, by far, her single most favorite emotion and one she utilized often.

Today she stood at the front of a silent class staring blankly above our heads at the back wall. My worst nightmare was about to be realized. A lesson in Holy Scripture. And in Latin. Sheesh. We stood and sang New Jerusalem Vivit before the Novice began.

"Anat," she said loudly. We all sat up. "For the greater glory of god."

"Ad Maiorem Dei Gloriem," she replied without hesitation.

"And act of faith?"

Anat shuffled proudly in her seat, she had this one in the bag. "Actus Fidei, Novice, or more commonly known as the Auto-de-fe."

There it was, that phrase again. How I hated its sound, how I hated the way it forced itself into every part of my life. It was nothing less than a thug and a bully. Way more harrowing than anything Cosmin Bale could dream up.

"Cosmin. For you. Come faithful?"

Cosmin looked up with a stupid surprised expression on his face as if something that had happened a million times before was the last thing he ever expected to happen again. What was his problem? He couldn't ask for an easier translation.

"Adeste." He stopped to think. "Infidelis."

A few of us snickered. He grimaced menacingly and we fell silent, quite aware of the after school consequences. But in this arena the Novice held the real fear.

"No more laughing," said Novice Magdalene staring over the class from her flat, white face and then she said with that false empathy of hers, "Now Cosmin, that would be the opposite would it not?"

She moved from her platform and between the desks. It seemed like she floated rather than walked. When she arrived at Cosmin's desk she withdrew from the folds in her gown, in a flash and in one smooth movement, the dreaded electroprod. Cosmin recoiled when he saw it. She was skilled and quick and allowing Cosmin no time to brace himself, the Novice quickly stabbed it between his ribs. A voltage shot into Cosmin's body. He launched from his seat and landed back down on his backside with a thump. His hand grasped at his side and his clenched teeth stifled a shriek. Clearly turned to a high setting by the strength of Cosmin's jolt. I have to say I took no pleasure in his pain.

"Again," she said

"Fidelis," he muttered without much conviction. "Novice Magdalene? It's Fidelis."

"It's always strange to me how a little pain prompts the memory. Shakes the sinews, fires the synapses. Wakes the idle." She spun on her heels to face Cami. "Agnus die, qui tollis pecatta mundi, miserer mundi."

Cami shot me a glance with large lively eyes and one side of her mouth was upturned in a mischievous smirk. What was she going to do? No sis, I thought, whatever you're thinking, forget it. My stomach knotted and I wanted to shout out and distract the Novice.

"No-one speaks Latin, Novice," said Cami. " Why bother with it? Does God speak Latin or something? Why can't we use our own language. I'm sure God would understand. He created the tower of babel after all."

"God would not understand your disrespect for doctrine, neither would the Moral's Proctor. And the tower of Babel confused, did it not? We wish to communicate one message to all. This is not like you Cami Frum. Not at all."

I saw her hand holding the electroprod twitch in readiness. I didn't think twice. I smacked Dorin on the back of the head. He swung round, " what the Jehannama."

All eyes fell on me. It was like a weight squashing me into a ball.

"Jah Frum," said the Novice. "What's going on?" Nerves stopped my brain from working, then I remembered little John who lived underneath our apartment. He told me a story about the Retribution Kids pulling a toe nail from his dad for a debt he had.

"I lent Dorin money a while ago and he hasn't paid it back yet so I want it back with interest and he says this is against holy teachings."

"Dorin is correct and I'm surprised you don't know that. Your marks are always exceptional on church doctrine."

Thank god for little John. Novice Magdalene put the electroprod back into her gown, this case was beyond an electrical nudge.

"Apologize immediately, and go put on the hoodwink and stand in front of the class until we agree on a suitable penance."

"Sorry, Dorin," I said.

Dorin shook his head and shrugged his shoulders as if he couldn't care less.

The Novice walked me to the front of the class. I took the black leather hoodwink from her desk and slipped it over my head. My nose poked through a front slit in the leather. The Novice tied my wrists together behind my back and then put a palm on the top my head. She pushed me down and, surprisedat her strength, I flopped to my knees.

"Now," she said. "Where were we. Oh yes, scripture. Dorin, dominus tecum."

After a blundered yet painful thrashing from the Moral Proctor's lash and a black mark scored on my file, it was lunchtime. The refectory was already as busy as a biblical market when I walked in. Immediately, the sour, creamy smell of olio hit my nostrils. I puffed it away and looked for Dorin. I saw him sandwiched in on both sides by what I can only describe as an army of boys oozing repressed energy. I squeezed between two of these boys junior to me, the yellow jumpsuits gave it away, so I could position myself across from Dorin. They tutted violently at the inconvenience.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry" I kept on repeating until I was in place, and then I finished with a final sarcastic, "sorry."

"Don't mention it," said Dorin. "About this morning. I get it."

"Sorry to bring you into it. No option and all that."

"What did they give you?"

"Ten."

"Could have been worse," said Dorin. "You might have had to actually be examined by the school analyst and god knows you could have died of boredom."

Dorin had a good knack of lightening a situation and usually he had a valid point. I liked that about him. For one, I could share concerns that had grown to enormous proportions in my mind, knowing he could shrink them back down to size with a withering look or a teasing laugh or an offhand dismissal with something as simple as, 'don't be an stultus asinus all your life.' and other such phrases of

encouragement.

"But at least I could sit down after analysis," I said. "My backside is burning here."

Dorin let out a stifled chuckle. "Thanks," I said. "And keep your voice down."

A large earthenware pot of olio sat in the middle of the long rectangular table. I filled my bowl with the serving spoon, having waited for the younger kids to get theirs, and when I opened my napkin to cover my jumpsuit a folded piece of paper fell out. I slipped it under the table and unfolded it. Eating with one hand and holding the note with the other I read,

Cheers for this morning, bro. I need to see you after school at the Hanging tree. I'm running. Don't go straight home or to Seraphim Troupe. C, X

My older sister running. Jehoshaphat! Why would she want to run? No-one ever runs. They know it to be pointless. Running was a final option after all other options had been exhausted. Mainly for the reason all runners were caught and dealt with. This had to be one serious problem because Cami didn't break easy and she hadn't even bothered coding the note.

I had to think this over as everyone in the hall ate in silence. Then I heard a snicker and watched as Zed was hoodwinked and lead from the hall by a lay-deacon because he couldn't control his words.

Was it Cami's upcoming hallowing? No, she had said without coaxing that she was looking forward to this, and had already been at the Temple for a few days of preparation. Things were normal enough at home, nothing of note had changed there, so that couldn't be it either. Was she being bullied? Was she bullying?

How did I miss the signs of her troubled mind. Had I not previously been a finely tuned detector of Cami's moods, had I not developed an animal like sensor of altered behavior. Not any more, clearly. It had to be this cursed Auto-de-fe turning me into a self-obsessed, introspective moro. Now I was tense and nervous and I didn't like it one bit. I put the note back between the napkin and into my pocket. I

ditched the spoon into the bowl.

"Not eating, rotundus," said Cosmin who had materialized at the end of the table.

"I've finished," I whispered. "And anyway, not now, eh."

Why was it I never heard or saw this moro approaching. Did he appear in a magical puff of smoke or something.

"Your Mother do the fattening at home?" he said.

He had a few more moros with him this time who liked to falsely cackle at anything he said. I ignored him and shook my head wearily at Dorin.

"Move along Cosmin," said Dorin. "Must be some girls or small boys asking to be intimidated. Or what about The Retribution Kids. They must be missing their grand leader."

"Shut it, Dorin" he snapped. "Your lip will get you into trouble one day. Mark my words."

"Well at least he's got some lip," I said, far too bravely for my own liking. Stick with it, Jah, I told myself. Confidence. "He doesn't have his face constantly at the Brother Godion's back side like you."

My eyes stayed fixed on the empty bowl of olio next to me. I tensed up in case a punch came flying across the table. When a few moments had elapsed I shot a sly look at Cosmin to gauge his mood and level of rage.

He had turned to his two moros who flanked him in a pitiably choreographed way and was mouthing something. They felt obliged to grunt a truly unconvincing kind of ridiculous half laugh as if to say my bravery could not be backed up with action and they might have had a point. Cosmin came around the table and my body coiled further. He leaned down and whispered in my ear.

"You watch it too rotundus." His breath stank of old cabbage and he'd clearly found a new favorite word. "How's your sis. Saw her at assembly. Looking pretty good. If she ever needs a real man give me a shout. That's if she hasn't already got one already, eh. Not hallowed yet either. And a nondescript with an ethnopure. Tut tut."

He gave this creepy wink as if he were suffering a facial seizure, the kind I suffered from in times of stress. Even though I was slipping into the falsehood of a shared affliction, the patronizing pat on the shoulder was the final straw. A rage erupted inside me. A spontaneous combustion. I stood up quickly with what I thought was menace but I forgot how squashed in I was. My arms were trapped so I had to wriggle to my feet like a stuck worm. I'm sure it didn't look as courageous or as scary as I intended and halfway to my feet and with my anger now subsiding, Cosmin mocked me, "Calm down, rotundus. I'm shaking in my boots here. Say Salve to your dad for me. Still a snitch is he? Losing people their jobs."

"Your dad was the one snitching on innocent soldiers, not mine."

A voice came over the speaker, and tiredly announced, "Cosmin Bale. Attend the Proctor's office immediately."

He walked off giggling with his friends and looking back over his shoulder. He pursed his lips and sent me sarcastic kisses. This guy was pushing it. Not my sis. No. And what did he mean about a boyfriend. Another grain had be planted and he knew it. I was seething.