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know. News is an important part of the war effort. Our brave men and women in uniform are counting on us.”
    Liam O’Shea’s smile quivered, then reluctantly bent into the grave frown appropriate for any discussion of the soldiers at war. “Of course. We must not forget our brave men and women in uniform.”
    Checkmate, Liam, Ruppert thought.
    Ruppert shook hands and pounded arms and greeted perhaps a hundred more men, but despite his maneuvering, Liam O’Shea managed to stay close by, taking the occasional furtive glance at Ruppert.
    Ruppert hadn’t been playing as much golf as usual, either. His new illegal hobby had eaten into social time; O’Shea had noticed, and now apparently felt obliged to keep an eye on Ruppert—for the good of Ruppert’s soul. If Ruppert failed display sufficient piety and groupiness, O’Shea might even report him to one of the lay pastors for counseling.
    Ruppert took the most circuitous route possible to his usual Men’s Meeting seat on the second tier of pews, but O’Shea kept pace and followed him all the way, sitting down in the same row when Ruppert joined up with his current golfing group. The men were like him, in their early thirties, similar suit, same haircut from the Church barbershop. He did remember their names, but generally thought of them as the lawyer, the doctor, the television producer. It was easier that way. He’d be assigned a different group of friends next month.
    The sanctuarium was laid out like a Roman circus, encircled by three tiers of seating with a capacity of ninety thousand souls. The golden domed ceiling soared above them, its apex too distant to see, giving an impression of infinite glimmering space overhead (though Ruppert wondered if the Church enhanced this effect with holograms).
    He looked down on the stages below, at the center of the sanctuary. An array of giant screens, each four stories high, faced out from the center to replicate the scene below, blown up to immense proportions that dwarfed the viewer. At the moment, the Men’s Blessed Banjo Band played a cover of a current faith-pop hit, “Down on My Knees (For Him).” They wore crosses, painted to resemble the American flag, pinned to the brims of their oversized straw hats, six musicians of uneven skill.
     
    I’m down on my knees,
    Ready to receive,
    Oh Lord, come into me…
     
    “Daniel!”
    “Hi there, Daniel! What’s the news?”
    “Good to see you, Daniel.”
    Ruppert gripped and grinned and clapped shoulders, repeating the interminable round of rising, smiling, shaking hands, exchanging pleasantries, sitting again. These days, he thought, everyone has to be a fucking politician just to survive.
    The men continued to pour in—there might be ten thousand of them tonight. Every man eighteen or older was expected to attend the weekly Men’s Meeting. It was not required, of course. The Church did not explicitly require anything but faith and a willingness to serve.
    In practice, New Dominion Church was the “true American faith” promoted by the Department of Faith and Values, and membership was implicitly required for any sort of licensed professional (such as a journalist or historian) and any kind of government-linked job. In the Ninety-Third Amendment to the Constitution, the title “Defender of the Faith” had been added to the duties of the President.
    And in practice, everyone had to join a number of groups and clubs. The smaller associations played a vital role in knitting the congregation together, ensuring that every individual sheep could be watched for signs of straying from the flock.
    “Daniel!”
    “What’s the news there, Daniel?”
     
    I give up my pride,
    I spread open wide,
    Oh Lord, I feel you inside…
     
    The band finished, drawing a smattering of applause from the audience. A few lay pastors took turns making announcements, usually of people deserving recognition and praise. One man had been made CEO of his firm. Another had purchased a new,