Free The Lost Apostles by Brian Herbert

this was just a minor glitch.
    Most troubling was the lack of an immediate response from Tunisia, but she tried to convince herself that it was nothing, that someone had just stepped away from their terminal at the wrong time. She shut down the system, retrieved her microcylinder and slipped it into her pocket.
    “Don’t worry,” Malia said, as Dixie Lou rose to her feet. “I see that you are concerned, so the messages you transmitted must be very important. I’m confident that they have gone through perfectly!”
    “Yes, I’m sure you’re right,” Dixie Lou said. Bowing slightly, she said, “Thank you for your gracious hospitality, and for your assistance.”
    As Dixie Lou returned to her encampment, she considered the momentous occasion in which she was involved. If the e-book transmission went through, it meant that the most startling publication in history had just been dumped on the worldwide web, for instant access everywhere.

Chapter 8

    Any person can be compelled to do anything.
    —Dixie Lou Jackson, private comment

    That evening, Dixie Lou continued her intense questioning of the she-apostles, a session that had been interrupted by the arrival of the Arab women. She wished she could only do this without witnesses, but she needed translators, and needed help to handle seven rebellious children, to keep them under control while she administered punishment. It was one of the responsibilities of leadership, something she had to do.
    The she-apostles stood or sat on the sand, while Dixie Lou strutted back and forth in front of them, studying each defiant little face. Behind the children, translators, matrons, and councilwomen held the babies and kept the toddlers standing in place, no matter how much the children fussed and objected, though none of them cried. Dixie Lou found this interesting, the way they were not acting so much like tiny children right now. Maybe it had something to do with the harrowing escape from Monte Konos, and the challenges of battle and survival had matured them. Off to one side, she saw her son Alex watching her, his face reflecting his now-familiar attitude of disapproval.
    Coming to a stop, Dixie Lou knelt in front of the flaxen-haired she-apostle, Candace. The two-year old squinted at her in the bright light, and tried unsuccessfully to free herself from the translator who held her hand tightly.
    “You know what I want, don’t you?” the Chairwoman asked. In the moments before the translator repeated her words in ancient Aramaic, Dixie Lou thought she saw a flicker of understanding in Candace’s eyes, suggesting that she was faking, that she and her tricky little companions understood English.
    Dixie Lou wondered, as she had since landing here, if their supposedly authentic gospels were reflective of true events at the time of Jesus Christ, or if these strange children had made everything up . . . or concealed information of tremendous importance. It was the second time she had questioned them on this matter, and this time she would get what she wanted out of them.
    Candace stopped struggling, and stared back at her peevishly.
    “All of you are concealing important things from me, information I need to know. I demand to know what it is.”
    Dixie Lou glanced around, at the matrons, translators, and councilwomen. That morning, she had asked each of them if they saw what Candace did, vanishing when a bullet was headed toward her, and then reappearing a moment later. None of them admitted seeing it, but Dixie Lou remained convinced that it had happened. The solution to that particular puzzle was a critical part of the enigma of the she-apostles.
    The children, even the tiniest, just stared at her blankly, emotionlessly. Obviously, they didn’t care one whit about Dixie Lou Jackson or what troubled her. The Chairwoman had a bleak, dismal feeling. She didn’t want to push the issue, didn’t want to interrogate these special children or even know what more they had to say. But