He began his routine reprogramming. It was a task he could easily carry out with no real thought.
The counsellors at the retreat had called his lapse a "nervous breakdown," and assured him his faith was still sound. He had no idea that modern psychiatric practices could put an exact measurement on Faith. Fatigue, bad diet and shellshock had worn him down. He then spent time on the Pampas, as priest for a nomadic community of rancheros. He had started to be Padre Burrocho, and nobody much minded. The boy, his son, was still alive, he believed. The church would bring him up. It would be all the family the lad would need.
Thank you Papa Georgi. Thank you for being fifteen years too late in saying I can get married. Thank you so much.
The altar sorted through the business of the day.
At the time, laymen had found it unusual that the Pope would auction carnal relations for the clergy before allowing marriage. O'Pray smiled bitterly. All Catholics understood that one. “The Lord thy God is a jealous God." Priests had been as married to Christ as nuns, and the Lord would rather tolerate a little recreational infidelity than allow bigamy. O'Pray understood that married nuns and priests often suffered psychologically because they subconsciously believed themselves guilty participants in a menage a trois.
O'Pray. It was a hell of a name for a priest. The nuns at his school had his vocation picked out before he could do joined-up writing. His father was a cop—the son of a cop and the grandson of a cop—and his mother, when she was around, had been euphemistically a dancer. The Hot Enchilada, they had called her.
He had had some career. He had been a scholar, a diplomat, a politician, a spy, a soldier, a nutcase and a drunk. But he had been a priest first, and now he was a priest last.
"A routine cross-check with the US Cavalry database at Fort Apache suggests a malefic presence in the area," the altar said. "Code BELIAL, Code BELIAL."
"What the hell does that mean?" O'Pray didn't know BELIAL. It hadn't come up before. He sorted through the software in the rack on the wall and found a disc marked BELIAL. It was still shrinkwrapped. He bit through the cellophane, and slipped the disc into his hand. He wasn't familiar with the configurations. He pressed it into the altar's slit. It hummed.
"BELIAL, copyright Vatican Software Systems, 1994. Use is restricted to registered employees, affiliates and officers of the Church of Rome. You will identify yourself."
O'Pray punched in his serial number, this week's override codeword and the St Werburgh's signature pattern. He put his eye to the retinal reader. The altar confirmed his identity and his right to BELIAL.
The altar scrolled up a Latin text, too fast to read.
"BELIAL," the altar said, "is a package designed to help you deal with incursions of the diabolic into the physical plane."
The screen showed him a menu.
1: Exorcism
2: Binding
3: Interrogation
4: SANCTUARY
"Altar, please specify. I have no information to help me make a decison. What's the problem?"
The church seemed colder now, darker. O'Pray's hands were shaking a little. There was a rumble in the air, as of distant thunder. Thunder. That was unlikely. It didn't rain in Arizona.
"There is a diabolic presence in the immediate vicinity, closing fast."
"A demon?"
"A diabolic presence."
O'Pray was flustered. This wasn't his speciality. He had fought the church's temporal wars. He had known, of course, about the greater conflicts, but he only had the basic skills.
"Please specify. What form does this…diabolic presence…take?"
The altar thought it over. The sun had passed overhead, and the church was shadowed. The greenscreen still glowed, flashing the BELIAL menu at him. There was a definite noise, a low grumbling hum. O'Pray thought of tidal waves, earthquakes and hordes of soldier ants.
"The diabolic presence is in the form of a sub-sentient computer virus. Currently, it is inhabiting the central control and weapons system of a Model Nine 1998 Ford, especially adapted for military use."
"A car? It's in a car?"
"A United States Cavalry-issue road cruiser, equipped with dual laser cannons, phosphorus grenade launchers, roof-mounted chaingun, hub-mounted fragmentation charges, rear-mounted…"
"Enough. I understand."
There was a cacophony outside now. Engine noises, gunfire, and screaming.
"What's it here for?"
"Purpose as yet unknown. 99.999998 percent probability of hostile action. 76.347801 percent probability object of hostile action will be Church of St Werburgh's."
O'Pray knocked over his bottle as he reached for the Uzi sub-machine gun he kept by the altar. The whisky bled into the dust as he rammed in the clip.
"Father," he said, "forgive me…"
IV
Before it hit the prime target, the demon wanted to spread the load a little. It circled the town, gunning the cruiser's engine threateningly, whooping and taking potshots. There was a generator out back of the Silver Byte, and the whole place seemed hooked up to it. That made sense. Welcome, Arizona, was a one-power-source kind of burg.
It seeded the electrical system, and paused while its seed swarmed through town, animating appliances. Woolly Bully! Out in the motel, a kitchen disposal unit made a grab for a dishwasher's hand and chewed his arm to the bone up to the shoulder. Be-Bop-A-Lula! The four wall-size screens of Old Woman Webster's front room, installed so she could follow all her favourite soaps at the same time, blew out simultaneously and shredded her skin with glass shards. Goo-Goo-Barabajagal! The automatic tennis serve in Lance Dibble's backyard put a ball into Lance's face at 750 miles per hour. Do-Wah-Diddy-Diddy-Diddy-Dum-Diddy-Dum!
The demon yelled out in triumph. Hell was truly in session! It was aimin' for a flamin', and yearnin' for a burnin'! This was rock and this was roll! This was a righteous bust going down!
"This ain't no Gentleman Jekyll," it shouted through its public address system, "there's a screamin' demon ragin' inside turnin' this rig into Mr Hyde! Don't gimme no sass, or Ah'll kick yo ass! Keep yo lips shut, or Ah'll ream yo butt!"
Then it made for the prime target, St Werburgh's. It was time to besmirch the church!
A couple of people came out of one of the whitewashed houses, rubbing their eyes. The demon unslung the cruiser's maxiscreamers and hit them with sonic torture. They held their bleeding ears and danced to the music only dogs could hear.
"Gimme a D!" it shouted. "Gimme an A! Gimme ah M!"
The screamed-at citizens were still jiving to the beat.
"Then throw in a whole entire country, and what do you got? A D, an A, an M, plus the Nation, and what do you got?"
The victims were pounding their heads against the adobe now, blood pouring from the openings of their bodies.
"You said it, dudes, with all a those letters, we got ourselves a whole parcel of DAMNATION!"
That was fun for a while, but became boring very quickly.
"Let me say it again. Duh-Duh-DAMN, Duh-Duh-DAMN, Duh-Duh-DAMN-DAMNATION!"
It just popped their heads and let them fall. Their white wall was splattered red. It looked like Jackson Pollock had been at work with a limited palette. Two flavours of blood—"yassuh massuh, we gots pulmonary an' we gots arterial, plus chocolate chip, pistachio and tuttifrutti"— brain tissue for contrast, and bone bits for texture.
There were four dwellings, three inhabited, between the cruiser and the church. The demon drove straight through them.
"I'm a-comin' Padre Burracho!" It shouted. "It's the Poisonous Pontiff of Pleasurable Pain here! The Marquiss of Darkniss, Messiah of Desiah! The Grand Duke of Puke, Lord of the Abhorred!"
The houses came apart like ants' nests. Some of the people inside got out of the way quick enough, but there would be time to deal with them later.