Francis LaPorte and the Association of Good Fellows

The Church of the Empire

Sunday, Sivan 24, 5693

Francis sat in the room with Yakovi and a gathering of other Kingsmen leaders from various circles. His friend, Fritz Gibbons, was among them.

Fritz was an Altruite, newly ordained in the midst of those troublous times, and he sat comfortably next to Francis with all confidence that the blonde haired, blue eyed Garman would never betray him. It was funny to him that Francis might have been considered a part of his own special class if he hadn't rejected the notion entirely.

The group had come together for a meeting that evening with one principal interest in mind: a defense of the church against the rising influence and ludicrous demands of the self-proclaimed "Garman Kingsmen".

In the past weeks, the quarrels in church politics had escalated from a harmless simmer to a roaring boil. It was as if someone had come over to the stove whereupon the Kingsmen set their cooking pot and cranked up the fire beneath their theological stew. Now the tainted water was in danger of spilling over with a heretical splash into the fire itself.

The establishment of a united church for the empire brought with it the demand for someone to run it, and that task the commission had assigned to a good and honorable man by the name of Fredrick Bealer. Bealer was a distinguished cleric from Bethel who oversaw a small Kingsman town built for the merciful care and treatment of the sick. He was an ideal candidate for the job, and his appointment was welcomed by the people.

Despite public approval, the Garman Kingsmen had been screaming and protesting from the moment Bealer stepped into his new office. His appointment had come at the expense of Jack "Mule" Reynolds, a favorite among the Garman Kingsmen.

Jack Reynolds was an army man who had served as cleric to a military division during the war. He was uncouth, unsophisticated, and unqualified for the task of guiding the churches in Garma, Empiric or otherwise. He was, however, Freitag's choice for the job, and, as such, the old Mule enjoyed certain privileges, including all of the media and press he could ask for and a team of government lawyers searching desperately for a means by which to remove his opponent from his office.

Now the Garman Kingsmen were yelling for elections while their Mule worked the media circuit, complaining of a great and tragic lapse of judgement on the part of the bishops. They insisted that the "voice of the people," must be taken into account.

Yakovi's League of Reformers met as a result of this, and it was there in the modestly sized drawing room of the cleric's Light Post that Francis met a man who would prove to be a lifelong friend to him.

They had already begun the meeting, Yakovi having only just begun to introduce the first matter of business, when the door opened with a pronounced creek of the old wood.

Francis, thinking too far forward to notice, was only made aware of it when, to his absolute dismay, he felt the jab of Fritz's boney elbow strike the flesh between his ribs.

"Ow!" Francis whispered. He would have protested would it not have so plainly interrupted things.

"Look!" Fritz whispered back to him, and without another word, he nodded towards the door. He had Francis's attention, and that was all that he wanted.

There, carefully pushing closed the door with as little noise as possible, was a slender and athletic man with soft brown eyes and a look of embarrassment for his lateness. To be Garman was to be punctual, and to be late was not to be Garman at all. The people of the empire regarded timeliness as a virtue not to be shunned, and here the man had lost his pride for his tardiness. He wore a long overcoat with some military ribbons and a plaid scarf of muted tones strung around the neck of his dignified, impressive figure.

"Fidel," Francis breathed. He almost could not believe it, but a satisfied smile came across his handsome face.

As far as Francis was concerned, it was about time that the old army man showed up to lead the rebellion among the churchmen against Freitag and his men of war. This new antichurch of the Garman Kingsmen, the growth of which Freitag and his lieutenants had so devilishly fostered, was the single thing which Francis feared more than even the impending war or suspension of their civil liberties. If the Kingsmen Order was to be given over to the control of the Good Fellows and their state, there would be nothing left to keep Freitag in check... nothing but God.

The sort of religion which the leaders of the NAGF sought to establish was not to be accepted by the Kingsmen, nor could it if they were, in fact, to remain Kingsmen. The two views were entirely mutually exclusive. Either one served the King or he served the Leader, either he served God or Freitag, the Kingsmen or the Association, the church... or Garma. There was no middle ground, and the Garman Kingsmen had made it so themselves.

Still, many even in Yakovi's circle found his views a little too demanding, a little too... extreme. When he had presented his paper on the question of the Altruites, he was met, even here amongst friends, with such exception that the majority of the group walked out at the sound of his suggestion. Who were the Kingsmen to resist the state, and who was Francis LaPorte to suggest that they might have a responsibility to a people outside of their own ranks, even to the point of resisting the very leadership which God had appointed over them? The whole view was entirely different than all of that mealy-mouthed, pietistic thinking to which they had so long grown accustomed to expect. In fact, it might have frightened them.

Now here was Fidel, the favored cleric and celebrated hero from the last war, the war that failed. Now they were preparing for another war, and this time, Herr Freitag hoped to succeed where the good King Wassel had failed. He was ready to lead the world into a new age under the iron rule of his expert leadership, a superior world, made in his image and likeness with Garma at its head. So, who better to get them out of it than Liam Fidel?

Fidel slipped in without much notice and quietly took a makeshift place in the back, leaning against a large table used to serve refreshments. It was clear that he had come to observe rather than to interrupt.

After the meeting had ended, Francis arose and made his way over to the old war hero, purposing to introduce himself. He somehow maneuvered through the crowd of standing men and met Fidel before he found the door.

"Hello," he said with a soft smile forming gracefully upon his lips. "You are Pastor Fidel, are you not? It was a pleasure to have you join us here."

An embarrassed grin fell over their guest and his cheeks flushed red. "Why, yes," he said. "I am. And I suppose you know that Bealer has enlisted me to do some special work for him?"

"Is that why you've come?"

"In part," Fidel admitted. "Though, I had been meaning to drop by. Your little group here has made quite a name for itself here in Bevel." He paused, giving Francis a once-over, and his nose crinkled as his eyebrow raised. He lifted a finger and wagged it. "Now you seem to have an advantage on me, because you know who I am, but I don't know you."

Francis's smile split into a small grin, and he bowed his head in courteously as he humbly introduced himself. "Francis LaPorte."

"LaPorte..." Fidel's trim face turned upwards and his eyes surveyed the ceiling. "You wrote the essay on the Altruites, didn't you?" He lowered his eyes again to earth until they met the blue light of Francis's own.

Francis stared intently at him, his anxiety building with the expectation of the impending judgement on his work from the thin lips of his fellow clergy.

"I read it," Fidel told him, a soft light like friendship growing in his watchful eyes. "It was a very thought-provoking piece. Well done."