THE CULT OF PURITY

“How so, dear boy?” Tony replies in a refined British accent that doesn’t go with his claimed hometown of Stockholm, his Spanish looks, or his German last name.

Sergeant Thomas ticks off the points on his fingers as he says them. “You’re able to manipulate minds, yet you need me to find your targets. You claim to be Swedish, Spanish, German, and British depending on the day—and despite living most of the time in America. You crack down on mind control abuses, but you don’t leave home—wherever you’ve decided home is this week—without Syndrome. What number are you up to?”

Tony waves a dismissive hand as the sergeant lays out the questions. “Telepathy and hypnotic arts are two separate and unequal things, one more rooted in reality than the other. I have chosen to be a citizen of the world, one who makes sure that certain things are not violated and certain lines are not crossed. I cannot explain these things to you at this time. I represent a rare breed of people. Those such as I are a good and peaceful lot who use their craft for good, or at least for a good show. Those who do not… that is where we come in, and when you must sign the name on your X-File.”

“X-Files? You’ve been watching too much television! I work in the Department of Mindcrime. You understand that by our standards what you do is criminal, right?”

“Such is the case with most of the most deeply embedded informants in the underworld,” Tony says dismissively.

“Because we’re trying to understand. And you still haven’t told me about Syndrome. Are you waiting for a new one? The Avon lady, maybe? Maybe a cute little cheerleader? You’d better check ID on one of those,” the sergeant warns him with narrowed eyes.

“Tom, you have a remarkable talent for at once giving me too much and too little credit. Be assured that in that regard I am always respectful of the local laws and customs. But speaking of my trusty assistant, she should be done with dinner. Care to join us? We’ll be enjoying borscht and roast pork. Have you ever met a woman who can become so adept at cooking complicated things so quickly?” Tony replies.

The sidekick in question, a blonde in her early twenties with killer legs and a mindless expression on her face, walks in. She wears nothing but a Terrell Owens Eagles jersey and matching green high heels. Tony shakes his head. “With a last name like Owens, surely you would think she could cook Thai food fit for the king of Siam. But no, I had to implant the slightest hint of a decent meal into her. She had no idea what poultry was, and when I told her it was fowl, she rebelled against all things with wings. A shame. I am rather fond of squab. But I believe you were wondering why I, who claim to be above the scoundrels we have encountered, keep a thrall by my side. It is a matter of honor and pride, to be trusted with someone’s mind, and more importantly, be trusted to return that person to the world better than when you found them. It is a sign of status. You have your stripes, martial artists have their belts and dans. Controllers have thralls, though too often my cohorts use less dignified words. But be assured that while the Syndrome programming is consistent, I never keep the same woman more than two weeks and never have the same one twice. Of course, I ascertain that she is of age, single, unemployed, and will leave her service smarter, stronger, and more confident than she was in her past life. I am not shy in explaining what happened, either. Some object on principle, and I understand their views. Most write me from their new lives and send me pictures of their children. None are mine, I assure you, though there are several Anthonys, Antonias, and other variations out there.”

“I take it this one’s the 81st? That is to say, the eighty-first attractive woman that you sleep with as many times as you can during your time with her? I assume that’s a coincidence, of course.”

“Of course,” Tony says with the ghost of a smile. “If you knew the sordid perversion even the meekest mind controller engages in with their thralls, you would not even blink that I make love to Syndrome. And she is much more than a sex toy, unlike most thralls, I am embarrassed to say. Some arm wrestling before dinner, Tom?”

The sergeant grins, and Tony clears the table. “Wrist up, old man.”

“Oh, I apologize for the misunderstanding. I meant with Syndrome. Syndrome, please demonstrate your mental and physical enhancements to Major Tom,” Tony says.

“Yes, Master,” Syndrome replies. Wristing up, she throws down Sergeant Thomas’s arm before he can blink, the impact throwing him to the floor. He gets up holding his shoulder and wincing.

“Oww. I take it you use her as a weapon in addition to her other duties,” the sergeant says with a grimace.

“The mind, when completely harnessed, can create wonders that would make any man marvel. In this state of increased focus and complete obedience, I could make Syndrome into anything I wanted. I just use what is needed and refuse to become greedy. Nor do I erase the original personality of my latest thrall, merely put it to sleep until I no longer need her. I admit that certain things I will erase—no matter how fond of it she once was, this young lady will never touch tobacco again!” Tony says with a smile as Syndrome heads to the kitchen, and then returns to the parlor to announce that dinner is ready.

They settle down around the table, and Tony said, “As much as you have wondered about my idiosyncrasies, I know they are not what bring you to my latest domicile. You are, after all, due at your next mission early tomorrow, and your flight leaves at an hour you would prefer to call ungodly—that, coupled with the weather over the Carolinas, makes you uncomfortable with your mission even without factoring in its subject.”

Sergeant Thomas raises an eyebrow. “What have I told you about reading my mind?”

“And as I have not done so, you need have no worry about my invading the privacy of your thoughts. I know you must leave early because you have many small things on your person that you would not travel with unless you were preparing to leave immediately. The road map of Georgia in your back pocket suggests your destination. Knowing that you would likely call upon me for assistance, I had Syndrome read all of the weather forecasts for tomorrow. The only question is your exact destination.”

“Atlanta. We’re investigating a cult in the area,” Sergeant Thomas explains.

Tony shakes his head. “Theological controllers are child’s play. Most spread themselves so thin that all they can do is replace their flock’s thoughts with idiocy. Those that have greater ambitions turn to violence, and if they are stockpiling guns or bombs, I want nothing to do with it. Simple violence is not mindcrime, and neither of us is responsible for handling terrorism. Most of the so-called brainwashing for these groups isn’t the work of a hypnotic artist anyway. A true artist is much more discreet in his methods. Why kill bodies when you have the power to kill something more valuable?”

“That’s what we thought initially. But our guys on the ground tell a different story. The men are your run of the mill Christian zealots, but the women of the Cult of Purity… here are the pictures. You can gauge for yourself.” Sergeant Thomas pulls out some pictures, and as Tony looks through them, Sergeant Thomas adds, “These were the last transmission from Rogers before we lost contact with her.”

“I see,” Tony says with a frown. “I thought the reward of 72 virgins was a tale limited to the Arabian sphere. I will arrive at their door at eight sharp. However, I will need a new Syndrome. A tomboy I met observing a game of that barbaric bastardization of rugby that you insist on mis-naming football will simply not do. I will need someone of a more pious background to infiltrate the cult. Ah, serendipity. Your worries will be assuaged—you will have a chance to see me release one of Syndrome’s hosts. Perhaps you will also have the opportunity to see me create a new Syndrome—but after induction. Some things do require privacy, after all.” The grin on Tony’s face doesn’t seem to fit his dignified facade, but fits all too well with what Sergeant Thomas knows of the man.

“I don’t care to see what you do to these women. Just make sure this one returns home safe and doesn’t come to me in the morning with a complaint. You do your work in your way, I’ll do my work in my way. I’ll see you in the normal way, I take it,” Sergeant Thomas says with a sigh. “Thank you for dinner—both you and your… Syndrome. Tomorrow, then.”

Once he leaves, Tony gives a sharp nod and turns to Syndrome. “Syndrome, your time here is done. The program will leave you and you will reconnect with your original identity. Do you recall your name?” he asks.

“I am Syndrome. I seek for you. I am… I am… I am Sharon Owens. I am Sharon Owens,” Syndrome says as she blinks and begins to lose her lost gaze.

“Very good. You will dress and return to your home. The closer you get to home, the more you will be Sharon Owens and the less you will be Syndrome. When you return home, you will remember all of your past, and you will only remember of the present a pleasant weekend of with a man you met at the game,” Tony instructs, and the girl does as she is told, dressing and departing.

He sits down and begins to draft his plan of action. He knows that he won’t get far without a new Syndrome by his side to serve as a stalking horse and bait for this cult. She’ll need to be different from most of his girls, a devout Christian girl who ordinarily wouldn’t instead of the girls who always would. Tony plots out his approach as he gets in his car and goes to the airport to get his private plane.

“Why, no, it wasn’t in the weather report,” she replies, cutely confused.

“A weather report is arbitrary after three days, you know,” Tony says, reading her for someone who responds well to authority.

“True, for you can’t predict God’s will,” she replies.

Tony has to hide his smile. Respect for authority, a heavy reliance on orders, and a belief in a higher power—she’ll be perfect for what he needs. “And if you run on God’s will, you must give up your own will, if your will ever really existed,” Tony says intently, staring hard into the woman’s eyes, holding her gaze in place with the force of his charismatic presence.

“Um, right, I guess, God’s will comes first. Let go and let God, right?” she says, the confusion of ideas making her prone to suggestion.

“Yes, exactly so. Let go, and let your mind be OPEN to anything God tells you,” Tony says, throwing the umbrella open right by her face. It startles her slightly, and more than a few passers-by look at them in alarm, but travelers have their own concerns, and they go about their business, not realizing that they’ve seen a young woman slip ever closer to trance.

“Yes, open,” she says, growing weary.

“Good. Now, I am a preacher, so by definition, I convey the word of God. If I am telling you what God tells you, then your mind is open to anything I tell you,” Tony says, stepping up his game as he senses that she’s slipping further into trance.

“Yes, open to anything you tell me,” she replies, her eyes wide and vacant.

“Good. Now, take this umbrella and shelter your mind from anything that could block you from adhering to my word, to the word of God,” Tony says. She takes the umbrella from his hand, and he guides her out to his limo, supporting her arm so she doesn’t drop the umbrella and break the illusion. Once they’re in the limo, behind tinted windows and soundproof glass, he begins the second phase. “Close the umbrella, my child. You are sheltered here. All you can see and hear is me and my word.”

“Your word is the word of the lord,” she replies automatically.

Perfect. Almost too perfect. Now to convert her into Syndrome.

“My word is all that there is. Your mind responds only to it, only learns it, only functions because of it. Listen to my word, and let it it sink into you. It is an obsession, a syndrome that infects every facet of you. It overwhelms you. It takes you over.”

“I am overwhelmed by your power!” the woman exclaims in the throes of religious ecstasy.

Tony worries that his “too perfect” fear is coming true, but he presses on. “You surrender yourself to my power,” he says, waiting for her head to nod forward before taking out the headphones hooked into his computer and launching the Syndrome program that will reprogram the woman into his thrall for the next week at least. As the program progresses, with the normal results and reactions, he relaxes; though the face will be unfamiliar and some of the memories strange, this is still his familiar Syndrome, repository of all his knowledge and the only person he will ever trust.

As they get to the hotel, the woman gets out and holds the door open for Tony, then walks slowly behind him when he says, “Follow me, Syndrome, we have much to do before daybreak.” They check in and go to their suite, where Tony lays out the situation. “We are here for the Cult of Purity. We will locate them and, if appropriate, eliminate them. You will take on all aspects of the female programming, but always remain in my thrall. You may hear many words, but the only ones you truly listen to are mine,” he tells her. She nods blankly.

Mission programming complete, Tony turns to the final and most enjoyable phase of Syndrome’s programming, undressing his latest Syndrome while she takes to him as if she’s known him her entire life.

“All houses show signs of occupancy, master. There are no recent tracks except ours. Occupants are likely still within their homes,” Syndrome drones out robotically.

Tony makes a face. “For purposes of infiltration, this will not do. Assume Syndie persona,” he says. Syndrome relaxes and takes a more human expression on her face. “Synchronicity. A mental criminal cannot resist such order. But what disturbs me most is that the gate of this community hangs open—and as you have said, there are no prints. The leader of this cult does not fear his thralls escaping. We must go deeper into the belly of the beast.”

They enter the compound and go into the main church building. At this hour of the morning, no one else is there, allowing them to study it more thoroughly. A large, gilded pulpit rises up in front of the rows of pews, flanked by large TV screens. The windows are high above the room, and seem to only exist for ventilation purposes. The white and wood walls are covered with Bible verses espousing obedience and respect for authority. A nagging hum thrums through the room, at the edge of hearing but easily ignored.

“Standard enough equipment, my lovely Syndie. Everything channels down to a single point—symbolism enhanced by that pesky subliminal generator, of course. Now, where is our Major Tom? He should know that I have to be briefed before he begins his investigation. Ah, there he is in the front row,” Tony says, proceeding to the front pew and sitting down to Sergeant Thomas. The sergeant does not acknowledge him, or in any way break out of his prayer stance. “Ground control to Major Tom, are you there?” he asks with a gently teasing note in his voice that would surprise anyone who knows the legend of Tony Horn.

The sergeant looks up. “Ah, yes, I did send for you. My mistake. There’s nothing here to see. Our laws protect freedom of religion, and nothing sinister can come from it. Our job is to uphold the highest laws. We’ll leave these people be. I suggest you do the same.”

Tony raises an eyebrow and says nothing, indicating that Syndrome should follow him out of the building. When they leave, Sergeant Thomas turns to face the pulpit once again.

Outside the building, Tony frowns and speaks softly to Syndrome. “Either our controller was not expecting another hypnotic artist, or he was gloating over his power. No one is that obvious with contacts they control. The best use such people to lead their enemies astray—or right into their arms as the next victims in their scheme.”

“Or he is an amateur unused to such power,” Syndrome suggests.

“Not likely. He wouldn’t have been able to overpower a Mindcrime investigator that easily, especially not our Major Tom. His resistance is unusually high, almost unnatural for one who chooses not to control. All these years in my presence, and yet all he’s done is pick up a sunglasses habit. The work of a night should not be enough to compromise him. And it makes no sense. Use your host persona. Why would a cleric use his methods—or hers, I suppose—on an investigator when simple misdirection is all he needs.”

“Salvation is the only path. Any soul that is seen to be lost must be saved by any methods necessary,” Syndrome replies, and there’s a hint of emotion in her voice that takes Tony by surprise.

“That doctrine is perfect for raising an army for whatever agenda he desires. No different than the terrorists they deride, really,” Tony muses.

The church bell sounds, and there’s rustling and movement around them. “No time for further deliberation—the alarm clock has rung. Watch and observe.” Tony gestures Syndrome into hiding and watches women stream out of the houses. Each house has the same pattern—one older woman in a black dress leads out six young women in identical white t-shirts, white sweatpants, and white tennis shoes.

“Synchronicity is beyond normal margins,” Syndrome warns as the women exercise in front of their houses.

Tony’s mouth twists. “But only for the pretty young things in white. Their leaders seem to be the standard Bible thumpers we saw Tom transformed into,” he adds as they sneak back down into the bushes to watch the women finish their exercises.

“Women of Purity, rejoice!” a male voice blares over the loudspeaker. “Our congregation has grown thanks to the government of this glorious nation. Servants of Eve, prepare to welcome our new members with bliss into the glory of almighty God!”

The young women in white undress and line up naked as Sergeant Thomas and other Mindcrime agents come out of the church building. Tony starts swearing under his breath. “This whole investigation was a trap. If they infiltrate Mindcrime, they’ll operate undetected until their grip is dangerously strong. Syndie, find Major Tom and remove him from the pack. I will search for this false prophet and discover what his intentions are,” he says to Syndrome. Syndrome nods acknowledgment and goes towards the group, while Tony heads into the church building and takes the pulpit. “Hear me, ye sinners! I am Satan come from the abyss to reclaim you!” he calls out.

A tall, brown-haired man in black robes storms into the church. Tony smiles at him like a shark. “I knew you could not risk that coming from the address system. Such a contradiction would threaten your thralls. I know you are a superior talent. You control thousands at once, after all. I assume you have taught your men the basics to recruit more people to fill this… cathedral. Or perhaps temple would be more appropriate—temple to your own ego in playing God.”

“You must be Tony Horn. Stage show hypnotist turned vigilante guardian of the so-called truth and ethics of mind control. Your government rep told me. Welcome to the Cult of Purity. Mine are a simple people and my goals even simpler. We wish only peace and happiness for all people through the Lord. What can be so wrong with that?” the pastor replies. The two men watch each other like circling predators, like elk ready to lock antlers.

“Capturing government officials to do your bidding is a strange way to express peace. Render unto Caesar’s what is Caesar’s, after all.”

“For this is the law and the sum of the law,” the pastor replies.

“And then there’s that group of hundreds of nude women. Quite attractive, but I thought that recognizing one’s nudity was the first sin and awareness of all other sins,” Tony inquires further.

“Ah, yes, the Servants of Eve. They are not yet fully formed, you see. They are but students, more than any of us. They were runaways, prostitutes, and orphans that we adopted to maintain and nurture this great land. Six are assigned to each household. They do their labors and then return to their training in total silence and perfect obedience. When they mature, they will be the wives of the new generation and the tools of salvation for all.

“Of course, thralls as a tool of induction. How cleverly dehumanizing. So this orgy that’s currently distracting several fine agents of the federal government is… a form of worship, I suppose? After all, they are on their knees,” Tony says with a chuckle.

“Is not sex the core of the thrall?” the pastor replies with a laugh. “It’s simply reinforcement for both sides, and it ensures that they give their wives or their wives to be to us so that we can have them join us on our quest.”

“Ah, world domination through prophecy. Multiply your little groups by twelve, and you’ll find you’re not the only one who thinks that way.”

The pastor’s brow furrows as he tries to work out the math, but he shrugs off Tony’s remark. “Something of the sort, but in the name of God, of course. Come, brother, you would be useful, and I have heard of your skill.”

“Not interested, although I suppose you need to recruit someone for other ministries across this great country,” Tony says, trying to calculate the scale of this man’s interests.

“In time,” the pastor says with an enigmatic smile. “Shall we enjoy the festivities outside? I believe my Servants of Eve have gotten things well underway.”

He leads Tony outside, where we see the Mindcrime agents each intertwined with six women who take turns servicing them. None seem to be in control of their bodies—or their minds, as the women hold them at the edge of orgasm.

“Welcome to God’s kingdom, brothers. We shall bring you your queens—but first, turn in the sinners whose names you have so shamefully protected. Begin with the murderers of babes,” the pastor commands. The men, locked in bliss by the Servants of Eve, belt out passcodes and locations. The women in all black write them down feverishly.

Tony’s eyes narrow and his face hardens. “Murder! You recruit these men for murder! And then when they take the fall for you, will you claim their women as salvage? Mindcrime indeed!” he accuses the pastor.

“How is protecting the word of the Lord and the innocent yet unborn a crime? We now have the means to enact God’s will on this sinful earth, and none will notice. My new show starts next week,” the pastor says proudly, looking over his thralls working on the men on the ground.

“Total enthrallment after the initial euphoria, I assume,” Tony says dispassionately, trying to find a way inside the cult’s mentality before it’s too late for Sergeant Thomas—and for America.

“With established doctrine to guide them, I have less need to use my craft, which means that I can handle more people,” the pastor adds.

Grunts and gasps echo across the gardens as the Mindcrime agents come to climax and fall into the pastor’s control. “So shall it be written. So shall it be done. I think you will find no more resistance to my work from the government. In fact, such action against me may cause them to look more closely at the sins you commit and realize you for the evildoer that you are,” the pastor says to Tony.

“I concede your strategic genius and your skill,” Tony allows. “But I am now curious about your induction methods.”

“Trade me your girl and I will show you.”

“Not likely. Even if she were by my side, which I assume you would have noticed—I would not. As it is, I do not know exactly where she is. I made sure that she would not be sucked into this perversion of religion you call your cult.”

“Ah, well. The men will be returning with their catches shortly, and you will see… if you provide the information.”

Tony does a good job of pretending to be interested while fighting the urge to get out and regroup. The only way to undo any of this is to find out how it’s done. “Standard methods will do for the masses. I could do that without your doctrine and without breaking a sweat. But these Servants of Eve are craftsmanship at its finest. I would very much like to know the methodology for creating such perfect thralls.”

“Do you take me for a fool? I know your girl is somewhere. I’m not about to give up my secrets without confirmation that you are dedicated to the cause.”

“All right… though I must warn you that induction based on euphoria can be countered and overwritten by a more potent euphoria, and my Syndrome is versed in the knowledge gleaned from hundreds of women, including prostitutes and Kama Sutra instructors. And if necessary, it is a replicable program. I just choose to be in the realm of the right, not the right wing,” Tony explains.

“Well! Better the many than the one! Hand over the program and I’ll be satisfied,” the pastor says.

Tony controls his face, knowing that his disgust could ruin this sting if he’s not careful. “But of course,” he says, handing over a stack of discs. “Each one is clearly labeled with its subprogram, as you can see. The order is as important a part of the programming as the actual program, because—”

“I will apply it to the Servants of Eve at once! Your Syndrome is legendary in certain circles, you know,” the pastor says with a wink.

As if summoned by his thought, a tall brunette in the uniform of the Servants of Eve, appears—with a stranger in tow, a college student in a yellow sweatshirt and blue jeans; the normality of her look makes the whole compound look even more bizarre than it already is. Tony smirks. “Surely a man of God can recognize a deus ex machina when it appears before his face,” he says.

“What is your name?” the pastor demands of the college girl.

“Angela,” she replies with her head held high. “I’m with the Nique, and I’m here to blow the doors off your little operation.”

“The free exercise of the glorious Christian faith? Hardly criminal, my child,” the pastor replies, and already Tony can see how he’s going to do this.

“And plotting attacks on abortion clinics isn’t? What’s next, gay bars? If you weren’t Christian you’d be bin Laden,” Angela snaps, trying to free herself from the iron grip of the Servant of Eve.

The pastor shakes his head. “Such a shame a woman as good and lovely as you has been misled by the homosexual propaganda. By your name alone you belong more here than with them.”

“I believe that we are all God’s children, and everyone was made in God’s image. God was not borne from hate, unlike you,” Angela says, and now Tony sees the glitter of a silver chain at her throat, almost buried under her sweatshirt.

“Very good, Angela, you studied well. But that doesn’t mean that God can’t have his image gruesomely altered by the Devil, right? You know the devil’s always trying to undo God’s works. It’s in his nature—it’s all he can do. And you can alter ‘most anything these days. Some are good alterations like your earrings, and some are bad alterations like homosexuality. And isn’t it true that the devil loves to destroy God’s creations? That’s where those abortion doctors come in. The devil is always at work, so we who believe in God have to work just as hard to keep up.” The pastor’s voice is warm and friendly, but with an authoritative note in it that Tony knows will go stronger as the induction proceeds.

“God doesn’t justify everything, certainly not murder. Thou shalt not kill…” Angela says, her voice slowing a little bit. “God doesn’t explain—”

“God explains everything! Man may find answers, but for every answer he thinks he finds, he creates more questions, and every time he tries to answer those questions, he realizes that the only place to find all of the answers is in the Bible. It’s like a cheat sheet for the test of life! I know a college student like you appreciates something like that,” the pastor continues, sensing that he is gaining a hold as Angela stops struggling to free herself.

“I guess, but isn’t cheating…” She trails off, blinking, her eyes starting to grow glassy.

The pastor bulls on. “So with all the answers, there can be no questions. Everything you need to be happy is in here,” he says, holding up a Bible. “Anything you do not understand, I will explain to you. I am here to explain God’s word to you. I am the man who knows the path to total happiness.”

Angela’s knees begin to wobble, but she musters up a little bit of strength to keep from going under. “But I…” Her voice fades out as her mind clouds further.

“God’s love knows no bounds, but only if you keep your thoughts from the devil. All the answers are in the Good Book. Follow God and Jesus, and you’ll be free from Satan. Follow God and Jesus, and you’ll be eternally happy because you’ve aced the test,” the pastor concludes.

Angela’s face goes blank and smooths out from her thoughtful expression. The pastor caresses her hair, and she crashes to her knees in prayer. He hands her a copy of the Bible, which she clutches next to her heart as she stares up at him with unseeing eyes.

“Bravo! Bravo!” Tony says into the silence. “Who knew such wonders could be worked with a simple contradiction and confusion induction? Child’s play! You underestimate me, sir, if you expect me to believe that she is now an orgy doll for keeping your gunmen’s guns cocked, loaded, and shooting.”

“Of course not, though now you’ve put the idea into her head. This is just to get her dedicated to sisterhood. Now she must confess her sins and be cleansed,” the pastor explains. “Angela, follow me to the confession booth.”

Angela rises and is led to the confession booth by the Servant of Eve. The pastor walks into the other side with Tony following. “Even the Catholics have their uses,” he says casually. “Now that her mind is open and ready to be shaped, I will have her give herself to the service of the Lord and his earthly servants.”

“Such as yourself.”

Any response the pastor might have is interrupted as Angela kneels and says mechanically, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

“This ends the religious portion of our program,” the pastor says absently as he removes his robes to reveal his naked body.

“Except for that part of Noah which has so often been used for subjugation in the past,” Tony says, now understanding the methodology as the pastor turns on a bright white light.

“Take your sins, my child, and cast them into the light. Your sins, your thoughts, your memories—feel them melt away in the Presence of the Divine in this earthly shell! Let go… let go and let God take control!” the pastor exclaims.

“Coupled with the prior state of suggestibility—you wipe them clean. Your thralls are mindless—dare I even say soulless? Surely that would be sacrilege,” Tony says, turning his plan of action over in his mind.

“You have witnessed my nudity and not looked away! Like the sons of Ham, you are now marked as a slave! Now begin your confession! Confess your former name and former home!”

“My name was Angela Cochrane. I was born in Decatur, Georgia.”

“Your name is Servant. You are born again here and now. What haven of the Devil poisoned your mind in the guise of college?”

“I was a student at Georgia Tech University.”

“You have nothing to learn that cannot be found in the Bible and in my word, the word of God channeled through me. Let go of the life that was once yours. Give your sinful thoughts into the light!”

Angela begins reciting her memories to be lost and forgotten forever, her eyes growing more distant and blank with every passing second.

“And all that is confessed is erased from the mind forever?” Tony asks the pastor.

“To the postulant, it is, and the belief is enough,” the pastor replies, continuing the confession. As Angela’s surrender becomes more sexual, Tony takes out his pager and sends a message to Syndrome. Distracted as the pastor is, he doesn’t notice when Tony leaves and meets Syndrome and Sergeant Thomas at the sergeant’s vehicle. Syndrome is buttoning her blouse, while Sergeant Thomas stretches after what appears to have been a lot of satisfying and exhausting effort.

“Ah, I see you and this iteration of the lovely Syndrome have gotten to know each other, though perhaps only in the Biblical sense—but I suspect you would rather I not discuss that at this moment. I trust she meets with your approval? Her legs are marvelous, and that slow Southern style lingers in her kissing. Yes, you certainly are in the holy hold now, aren’t you? Don’t let me ruin your good time by supplying only one girl when you could have had six—or perhaps you would have preferred seventy-two virgins each giving you a little death after you perpetrated a larger one,” Tony says with a chuckle.

Sergeant Thomas buries his face in his hands and mumbles something unintelligible before looking up and saying, “It is you, Tony. Damn, what happened?”

“You went directly after a hypnotic artist who had already claimed at least one of your cohorts without proper safeguards and without backup, and ended up under his thumb. The rest of your unit, I am afraid, will be much harder to awaken. Now that you’ve had the opportunity to met her, do you think Syndrome is that bad of a person?”

“She saved my mind, I’ll give her that. Now how is this pastor doing what he’s doing, and how do I get it undone so I can get my people back?”

“I would recommend doing up a few things before we attempt to undo anything,” Tony says with the hint of a smile. But his face turns grave as he goes on, “He uses a simple question confusion induction—but reinforced by both high and low tech. Though basic, it s highly effective and will be hard to break. And as for those thralls, I have no idea where to begin with them. I saw his erasing machine first hand. It’s quite efficient—a high light enslaving device, and the doctrine that follows the induction has them erasing the memories as they bring them to mind. He calls it the ‘confession booth’. Whatever the victim confesses in there is gone, most likely for good, replaced with a mechanical postulant.”

“Mental murder? Is that what it is? This is… unprecedented in mindcrime, it really is,” the sergeant says, turning pale.

“HA!” Tony shouts. “And that, my dear Major Tom, is the core of your problem. You investigate mindcrime, but you have no understanding of it, and you have no baseline to measure from except for the information I give you. After all, is that not why you turned to me for aid? Because you were forever being tricked into arresting small fry while the true predators ran amok? This ‘mental murder’, as you have described it, is what we refer to as total erasure—and it is the most common mindcrime in the world! There are entire gangs of people whose memories and former lives have been erased so that they can war as part of a human chess game for their master. And there is worse than that And if you think six in one… blow… is perverted, again, you have no idea how deep it goes. Welcome to the real world of mindcrime, my friend. You are now about to experience a journey into the sordid, the perverted, and the deranged—and this is just a cult leader with a fancy machine. Now, shall we free your men or not?”

“I’ve been waiting for you to shut up about how little I know and explain to me just how we’re going to do that,” Sergeant Thomas says through gritted teeth, irked at how easily his efforts have been dismissed.

“Simple, Major Tom. The controlled scatter without the controller, especially in a battle of the mind. Now observe a master, if I do say so myself,” Tony says as the three of them head back to the church building, where the pastor is waiting for them.

“You again, Horn? I should have known you would be back—and I see you finally produced your servant.”

“Hubris is the earmark of a hypnotic artist,” Tony says without inflection. “I see you erased your intruder,” he adds, inclining his head towards Angela, now clad in the same white robes as the other Servants of Eve.

“The confession booth is quite a machine—not only does it erase the ungodly thoughts in their pretty little heads, but it also instills the correct movements and values. All of my Servants of Eve are exactly the same underneath the skin. When I allow them to speak, they will even sound alike. That is my second phase once I have enough dynamic, attractive, and sexually appealing crusaders of the Word. No man can turn down such a package. Their old values are but a small price to pay for pure love, both the earthly and the divine. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a new shipment of sinners to purify, as the husbands have returned from work. If you’d like to try the new servant out, have at her. I’ve broken her in quite thoroughly,” the pastor says, turning away to do his work.

Tony whispers to Sergeant Thomas, “If his double-talk was not recognizable to you, let me put it in legal terms. He is a kidnapper.”

“Among other things, and he has MY men doing the same thing in the name of his cult,” the sergeant replies, angry red flaring in his face.

“Control yourself, Tom. You did admirably in front of him—he suspected nothing. But you must keep your temper.”

“My temper is very firmly under control. So how do you want me to play this? Have me bring my men back under some guise—a faked order from this pastor they’re now following, maybe? Then reestablish the unit and get them back in touch with Mindcrime?”

“Astutely observed and well-planned. But let them come back on their own with their… deliveries. This pastor needs me to appear as an ally for stability. It is not just the melodramatic movie villain’s tendency to monologue that has him revealing so much of his plan to me—he hopes I will be his partner in his unholy conversion, spreading his word across the country and the world. Without a partner, he will spread himself too thin. Even with government forces working to krotect him, he will need me and most likely a subliminalist to sustain himself. Call upon your backup, Tom, while I prepare for battle. Syndrome, red alert and activate the locale.”

“Yes, Master,” Syndrome drones out with a blank stare.

“Activate the locale? I thought you said you never took back former Syndromes,” Sergeant Thomas says with narrowed eyes.

“First rule of the art—the truth is only what you hear at the time. I frown upon such usage, but I will not let that distaste stand in the way of protecting the greater good. If you choose to quibble over the finer points of ethics, allow the dope pope to put you back under and prepare for defeat,” Tony says sharply.

“No thanks. I can have my backup here in an hour,” the sergeant says with a bit of glee at getting revenge.

“As will mine,” Tony says with a chuckle. They stand back and watch as the church bells ring again and the wives open the doors for the men of the cult, who come in with several hundred young women, all in their late teens or early twenties, all entranced and clutching Bibles to their hearts, coming to a stop and dropping to their knees in the pews, each with the same motion.

“Tom, if you would be so kind as to wrestle away a Bible from one of these prisoners, I have a sermon to write.”

Sergeant Thomas frowns, and instead of taking one from one of the girls, he reaches behind the pew and pulls one out of the copartment there. Tony accepts it, flips it open, and throws it down sideways. “I don’t care if it’s used for evil, Tony! The Bible is still a sacred text! Show some respect!” the sergeant protests.

“The only portion of this book that has any resemblance to the Holy Bible is the cover. This is nothing more than a pocket watch—a prop, a calling card as much as a means of induction. Look here, the pages are blanker than the minds of the thralls he creates. There is no faith here—no good, nor even any evil, merely control. This man uses the guise of aith to better ensnare his prey because it is the fad of the day. Ten years ago he would have claimed to lead a coven; twenty years ago he would have said all his secrets lay in the stars; thirty years ago he would have appropriated the teachings of East Asia; forty years ago you would have seen him among the hippies using their drugs against them. The result would have been the same. His confession booth would have been a magic box, or a starship, or a tomb of enlightenment, or simply hidden in a VW bus, but the devastation and violation of the human mind would have been identical,” Tony says, and the venom in his words gives away his hatred for such activities.

Just as quickly, though, he seals away the anger and looks calm—even happy—as he steps up next to the pastor and nods that he is ready to give his sermon to deliver the women to the confession booth. He takes a deep breath, looks out over his audience, and begins. “There is no god but God, and Muhamad is his prophet,” he says as coolly as if he speaks one of the Five Pillars of Islam every day.

The pastor recognizes the reference and seethes. Recognizing that something has gone wrong, he presses a button to signal his pstulants for battle.

“To fight a crusade, one must be ready to fight to the death, and the deaths of your children, and those of their children’s children until nothing is left of humanity. So, my children, prepare yourselves for battle and STRIP yourselves of your earthly belongings!” Tony exclaims. Everyone except the postulants, who are mindless to any orders but those that come from the pastor, removes their clothes and any jewelry they wmight be wearing. They wait for their next command, all attention fixed on Tony.

“Now, remove yourselves from your earthly desires by separating yourselves as the Jews do in prayer, men from women, women from men,” Tony continues.

The pastor watches with fury written all over his face, but Tony has the pulpit and Tony has everyone’s attention in the commanding way that few controllers can truly claim. His presence is magnetic. Interrupting—worse, countermanding—him now would be suicide. It would create mass chaos and leave the pastor dead at the hands of an enraged mob ready to riot across all of Georgia.

“Now turn to your Bibles—choose a page at random, for the Lord will guide your hand, and obey the words written there. Whatever they may be will be your passage and your stamp on the community.” Tony pauses while the crowd follows his instructions and turns ot the pastor to give him a wicked smile that reflects one word—checkmate When the congregants realize that the pages are blank, they reel in confusion; here and there he can see the beginnings of panic on otherwise blank faces, and he works to overwrite them as quickly as possible. “Now that you see that there is no word to follow, you can realize that there are no inhibitions, no cares, no thoughts—a true return to Eden! No knowledge of good and evil means that there can be no sin, only joy. So act upon that joy with the person closest to you, impassioned by your freedom before returning to your imperfect lives with no recollection of this interlude!”

“What is this, Tony? Whas there a need for a homosexual mass orgy, even if the women are quite… um… attractive, and looks… why would you do that?” the sergeant asks, biting his lip and adjusting pants that seem to have grown a bit too tight for him in the crotch. Despite his stated distaste, he can’t take his eyes off the young women in sexual bliss.

Tony calmly takes out a licorice sticks and nibbles on it in a blatantly suggestive way as he looks out in delight and admiration of his work. “I could tell a half-truth and tell you that it was repugnant erasure—making someone perform an act so against their ingrained instincts that there is no way on Earth they would even attempt to remember their actions. A common technique, actually, though used more often for acts less… pleasant. But you’d rather have the real truth from me, would you not? It’s just fun to watch! Now, now, into the fray with you. Some strings still bind you, and they need to be cut. Whatever your preference, she must be in there somewhere,” he says.

The sergeant looks at him for a moment, then gets distracted by a particularly enthusiastic group of girls and walks into their midst. They welcome him like water in the desert.

With a sigh of relief, Tony turns his attention to the Servants of Eve, who wait in blind empty obedience for the pastor to command them. He knows it’s coming, and this is not a battle that Sergeant Thomas or his men can help him with. He meets the pastor’s eyes without fear, and this only serves to infuriate his opponent further. “Well done, Horn. You’ve managed to kill yourself and stain my people so badly that I’ll have to induce mass suicide to send a message that my postulants can communicate. Of course, I’ll start with your homicide. How tragic would you like it to be?”

“We must have the proper drama, of course. Shall we burn the witch?” Tony asks lightly.

The pastor grinds his teeth at Tony’s insolnce, but he remains undaunted as he comands his slaves to prepare the stake to burn Tony at. They obey like robots. Tony laughs at them, kneels, and clasps his hands.

“I won’t accept your surrender to my will after such sabotage, but the gesture will look good,” the pastor says with a predatory growl in his voice.

“Nor was I planning to give it to you. The intervention I was seeking is only divine in some senses of the word,” Tony says with a smile.

A roar of fury goes up behind the pastor, and he turns to see Syndrome returning with a large group of women who have dropped everything and come to the church in complete Syndrome programming regardless of how long ago they served or whatever else they might have been doing. He forces a smile. “Clever, invoking your past Syndromes who were nearby. But you are still outnumbered two to one, and my Servants know everything about holy warfare,” he counters.

The two groups of women clash, and despite the Syndromes having third-degree black belt training in most martial arts implanted in their heads, the postulants are able to overwhelm them with sheer numbers. The pastor sneers. “Servants of Eve! Subdue your enemies, then return to your duty of burning the heretic,” he says. The pastor’s women start to tie up the Syndromes.

Tony raises a hand. “No need for that, unless that happens to be your particular fetish. Syndrome, retreat.” They all back off at once. “An excellent action scene, my dear pastor, and well worthy of… rising action. But, as you know, every great story must have its… CLIMAX!”

He projects the last word as a command, then leans back and watches the chaos as the entire congregation goes into throes of ecstasy. Once their minds are clear of the sexual fog, they are awake, alert—and mad as hell at the person who put them in this position in the first place. They charge the pastor and his postulants in blind rage, and the Syndromes join in. After a good fifteen minutes of mayhem, Sergeant Thomas’s backup arives to find the church building in shreds and the remnants of the Cult of Purity subdued by the Syndromes. With a few waves of his hand, Tony indicates to the congregants that they should depart, knowing that they will retain only hazy memories of the curious events that happened there.

“All right, agents, this is our ringleader,” Sergeant Thomas says, cuffing the pastor. “Haven’t gotten a proper ID on him yet, but I’m sure we can get that out of him at the office.” His smile shows too many teeth for the pastor to be comfortable.

“The thralls are innocent, but as they are, they will die without proper redientification, as they have been rendered so mindless that they cannot take care of themselves. I know of a facility nearby where they can be restored to some semblance of their old selves and have their lives restructured. Syndrome has found where our pastor stored the women’s personal effects, which will allow them to resume their old identities in time—but time is the key word, as I suspect that it will take at least a month to even begin putting them right,” Tony says to the agents.

“Hey, Alex! This that sideshow hypnotist you been telling us about?” one of the men says to Sergeant Thomas.

“Major Tom, perhaps introductions would be better served after we’ve dealt with the innocent young minds that have been preyed upon?” Tony warns.

“You mean the only guy who calls me by my old rank and my last name? The one and only,” Sergeant Thomas says with a smile.

“Good job finding him, Alex, lest we have another Waco disaster on our hands instead of just another Woodstock disaster, from the smell of things. We need to thank him officially. His name is?”

“I’d have you ask him, but, as you can see, he isn’t here,” the sergeant replies.

“My tastes are as broad as your country is wide, and I have yet to explore all of them here. And if there is one thing a hypnotic artist never has to worry about, it is finding immediate and quality housing. It certainly helps that most real estate agents pride themselves in beauty beyond their age,” Tony explains with a smile as his latest Syndrome—a statuqesque dark-skinned beauty with smoothed out hair—serves up some biscuits and tea. Sergeant Thomas takes the tray from her before there’s even a chance she could spill some hot tea on the bare skin revealed by her bra, panties, and high-heeled boots.

“Syndrome’s arrival reminds me of my next question. I’ve meant to ask, but there’s usually peril when I think of it—why the name Syndrome.”

Tony turns to Syndrome, and she answers not in the traditional Syndrome drone but in a warm Southern drawl. “Because we are captive, and we grow to love him for it each and every day for years after we are returned to our lives. He is from Stockholm, after all.”

“African-Americans are culturally averse to too much depersonalizing control, so if I take a Syndrome from that community, I tend to put much looser reins on her. They address me by my name instead of as master, for example. I like to think of myself as a sensitive man, after all. It also allows for some variety instead ot the rigid entranced movment of the normal Syndrome program. A looser rein often allows you to get the answers you need—in this instance, so that you see that I am not a criminal, unlike—” He stops as the bell rings. “Syndrome! Throw on a coat and answer the door, please.”

Syndrome does as commanded, to reveal a familiar face—Angela, reformed from her erasure and back in her Georgia Tech sweatshirt. “Hi,” she says shyly.

“Tom, you didn’t have the opportunity to make young Angela’s acquaintance—she was a crusading journalist for one of her school’s newspapers before running into the pastor. He ended up using her to show me how he performed his induction. Angela, how did you find me, or know who I was?”

“I needed to thank you. Thank you both, I guess. Which one of you is Sergeant Thomas? That’s who oe eof the policemen told me to look for. See, it sounds silly, but when I was out… I remember something about something helping me ace a test. And, well, my psych final is in a week, and I thought maybe you might know something about what was done to me that could help me—maybe if you knew what happened…” She trails off, looking at both Tony and Sergeant Thomas with fear and hope in her eyes.

“You give your faith, and it would be like a cheat sheet, and you would have no worries because you will ace the tst,” Tony says. Angela blinks in confusion. Her face goes blank as she walks into the house and closes the door behind her.

“What the hell?” Sergeant Thomas demands of Tony, hand to his hip as if looking for a weapon.

“A dose of mind control as strong as the one she got, coupled with her erasure, creates dependency, no matter how brief the period. The best way to wean her off is through a gentle period of controlled thoughtlessness that leads through suggestion to empowerment. This will help her regain her brain’s normal functioning and abilities, as well as opening up ones she was not previously aware of. Besides that, I think she finds you quite heroic for helping save her from a life of unconscious servitude,” Tony explains. As if on cue, Angela saunters over and begins rubbing the sergeant’s broad shoulders.

“Well, I guess gratitude is… ahhhh… all right,” Sergeant Thomas says, surrendering to Angela’s deft touch.

“Some licorice for me, please, Syndrome. High heels and a sundress… anything but white, of course… for Angela—no, let this be a new program. Tomboy 1, then, so bring the proper programming recorder as well so that Major Tom can have an aide as effective as you are. Tom will, of course, need some rubbers. Best bring the entire case. And for you, nothing at all,” Tony instructs with a chuckle. Syndrome goes to gather the requested supplies, while Tony watches the sergeant’s face and body relax under Angela’s tender ministration.

After a few minutes, by which time Sergeant Thomas is more than ready to perform, Syndrome returns with the condoms, the recorder, and the licorice. She has divested herself of every piece of clothing, even her boots, and she settles herself on Tony’s lap with a naughty smile. “Here you are, Tony,” she says.

“Excellent, as always. Care to share the licorice?” Tony asks, and Syndrome bends closer to his mouth. He savors the moment: the licorice in his mouth, the feel of Syndrome warm and wanting against him, and the new beginning in the effort to stamp out mindcrime.

THE END