The following speculative fiction story was written in 1990 and published in 1991 in the sci-fi mag "Visions." It was prompted by the first Gulf War. Since it is set in Afghanistan and involves future religious wars, it seems especially timely in 2006.

REV

By Michael Shay

Reveille, 15 July, 2042.

The bugle's warble erupts from my boot, where I buried my WristBib last night beneath dirty socks. Bender says one day I'll catch hell for removing my Wrist Bible. I probably will, but after 547 days at the front, I still can't face the 0500 wake-up call and the dawn's early light on this Afghan desert.

"Up and at 'em," says Bender, as he rolls from his rack and stands for the national anthem. I groan and slap the pillow over my head. Bender doesn't insist because I'm the sarge and he's the spec and I could make his life miserable if I wanted to.

"Good mornin', holy warriors," drawls REV from the WristBib. He speaks to my dirty socks. To dried sweat and toe jam and the fine sand granules of the Rigestan desert. I don't have to look at the two-inch WristBib screen to see the morning ritual staged by our unit's religious values officer. I can see REV even in my sleep. That flat, square-jawed face; eyes as penetrating as night scopes, pale blue as old ice. His presence is a reminder that he knows it all, that he can ferret out unclean thoughts, that he can detect the whiff of a wet dream or the vision of a naked Grecian harlot or the vibration of doubt about God, the mission, REV.

"Morning, REV!" barks Bender.

"We will smite the Unbelievers," REV shouts over the WristBib, his voice as intimidating as the rolling thunder of the big bombs that fall like monsoons on the Hindu Kush. The voice finds me, even under my pillow. And I know and maybe others do too that he is speaking as much about us as he is about the mujahadin that we chase across the desert to Kandahar.

REV says, "Get right with God."

"Amen, brother," I say. "Amen."

REV says, "No atheists in foxholes."

"Say it, REV," I say, "say it," crossing my fingers so that God, if he does hear poor skeptical sinners like me, doesn't strike me dead with a thunderbolt or a well-placed muja mortar round.

There was a pause in the morning prayers, and I realize it's time for Penitent of the Day and I know I can't miss it. I roll out of bed, fetch my gray WristBib from my boot and snap it on my left wrist. "Who's the victim today, Bender?" I ask, still groggy with sleep.

"Word at mess last night was Quartermaster," says Bender, a lanky soldier with a thin face and black hair. "Guys in Quartermaster say the spooks have been nosing around lately."

"Who's your money on?"

"QM guy named Rogers."

"Don't know him."

"You place a bet?"

I shake my head. "Got to mess late. The lotto was full."

"Too bad," says Bender, glancing at his WristBib, which is broadcasting an Americorp ad for smokeless cigs. "You hit it three weeks ago with Schnetzel."

"Lucky guess."

"I'm still working on my first hit," says Bender.

A dirge-like blast of keyboard announces REV's return to the screen. As usual, he is flanked by Second Sight spooks; a flock of his ubiquitous female adjutants hover in the background. In front of him is a guy I know from QM named Wicker.

"Sinners be healed," barks REV, planting his meaty hands on Wicker's shoulders.

"Damn," says Bender, collapsing on his bunk. "Wicker. Who would have known?"

"Can't win 'em all."

REV digs his fingers into Wicker's fatigues, kneading them like a baker shaping bread. Then, in a move so quick it startles me, REV whips his hands around Wicker's crewcut head, REV's hands so long and fleshy that Wicker's head looks like an egg between them. "Look at me, son," says REV. Slowly, Wicker's head rises with the help of REV's grip. "I can see by the black shadows in your eyes that you have doubts, Mr. Wicker."

As is the proper response, Wicker replies, "I am but a poor sinner, REV." The voice quakes; he knows what's coming.

"Ah, Mr. Wicker, we are all sinners," says REV, voice gentle as a billowing parachute. "All sinners. And yet, when doubts creep in about the Heavenly Redeemer, we need to shut those out, Mr. Wicker, not gobble them like cookies from mom in Des Moines. It is Des Moines, isn't it Mr. Wicker?"

"Yes," Wicker says, voice now as thin as a rare summer rain cloud.

"Mr. Wicker, I think it's time to repent."

"Time to repent, REV," he repeats like an automaton. We all know it's fruitless to do otherwise.

"Time for a Soul Check."

"Soul Check, REV."

REV smiles. Tombstone teeth sparkle in his wide mouth. "Amen," he says.

The Second Sight spooks pounce on Wicker and drag him away. "Bless you son," says REV, watching Wicker go. "Now," he says, his gaze turning to Vidland, "who's the next sinner to come forward?"

"If I knew that," says Bender," I could be a rich man tomorrow."

Later, when the service is over and the Americorp network begins its daily broadcast, we dress and shuffle outside into the dawn to pass Wicker in review. He is lashed with ropes to the aluminum alloy cross, ready for a day-long toasting under the desert heat. His eyes are blank as metal slugs. As we hurry by, not wanting to look but knowing we have to, REV joins us and shouts, "There, Lord, is a sinner -- and a repentant one."

"Amen," we have to say. It's part of the ceremony.

My day is coming, I say to myself, knowing that we all have our cross to bear as part of the Third New Crusades. And one to be borne upon.

End of Part I of "Rev." Part II will be available Nov. 1, 2006