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Free Stories 2018 Page 30

by Baen Books


  That the means to prevent cardinals from manipulating the pope's death is rote tradition tells you a little bit about what senior clergy used to be like. The fact that we still do this suggests that they haven't changed, much. Anyway, after the ring is rendered unusable, the Cardinal Camerlengo—which is his official title—then delivers the pieces to the College of Cardinals, who are met to elect the new pope.

  My job was to escort him.

  Clad in a bright white environmental suit, respirator, purple nitrile gloves and face shield, I watched the Camerlengo perform his duty.

  Turns out the only certain way to instantly stop a human infected with H7D3 is to destroy their central nervous system—which means destroying the brain or severing the spine just below the skull. Brutal, you say? Certainly. Necessary? Utterly. But as a result, Cardinal Crivetto didn't have to invest much time in confirming that the pope was dead. Through and through gunshot wounds to the head are universally unambiguous and final.

  Still, as is traditional, he murmured the dead man's given name in his ear. Predictably, His Holiness declined to answer.

  Getting the ring off the rigid, swollen fingers of the corpse was a different problem. Crivetto was a deeply spiritual man and his unease at roughly handling the body as he fumbled for the ring was plain to see in his eyes. They were all I could see of his countenance since he had sensibly donned the same full protections that I wore.

  The body was still in rigor, so the Camerlengo's doubled gloves continued to slip as he fought the stiffened, curled fingers. There's nothing about being Catholic which is inconsistent with also being a pragmatist, and the cardinals were waiting. I leaned past Crivetto and handed him the bypass shears which were waiting for the ring. It was simpler to just sever the finger.

  It turned out that Crivetto was a pragmatist too.

  Thank God. And thank You for Cardinal Crivetto. We would all come to have reason to appreciate him.

  Most of us.

  Outside the sealed papal apartment, we sanitized the ring. Then I escorted the Camerlengo as he delivered it promptly to the Sistine Chapel. Normally, there would be a gravity, a deliberate pace to replacing the pope, but the College of Cardinals had assembled within twenty-four hours, such of those who either lived in Rome or were within easy reach of the City.

  That's when we had our second miracle. As soon as we delivered the mutilated ring, tucked into its own enameled pyx, I was notified by the watch center that the American president was making an important announcement. Crivetto elected to come with me so that he could inform the more stalwart traditionalists who had begun politicking over the papal vote within hours of the Holy Father's death.

  The Camerlengo, who could not vote anyway, would bring back the summary before the first ballot.

  ###

  The zombie plague had begun slowly, compared to what came later. It hadn't taken long for hospitals to become overwhelmed. Eventually, the Carabinieri and local police of Rome, the Municipale, began the wholesale collection of infected people. I knew things were serious when the Church closed the tour system, despite the lost ticket sales. Separating the Vatican purser from a rich source of revenue was a job that I wouldn't attempt without least half a section of armored Swiss Guard.

  Even with the many landmarks inaccessible, the number of supplicants in St. Peter's Square stayed high. Had His Holiness approved it, closing the Square would've been a logistical nightmare—much of the southeast corner of the holy city lacked the high walls that lined the rest of our border.

  That's one of the defining qualities of Vatican City, we're small. Less than fifty hectares—maybe twice that many of what the Americans call an "acre."

  But to my point, right up to the day that he was rendered insensate by the disease, the pope insisted that the Faithful were entitled to come pray. I understood his compassion, but I didn't think that we were doing them any favors. Even before the Crush, no day went by that some parent wouldn't bring a struggling, sick child to the Square, hoping for a blessing, a miracle.

  I watched parents get bitten and turn, right there, below my duty station on the second floor. The Municipale would swoop in, stun them, flex cuff them and lock them in an armored wagon. The entire family, gone, just like that.

  Sorry. I was speaking of the College of Cardinals.

  Right.

  What with the travel restrictions, the unexpected timing of His Holiness' death and the naturally risk averse bent of the College, only a few dozen cardinals were present to receive the Ring, not the hundred or more that were usually on hand for the passing of the mantle. Most of those waiting for us were likely banking that the reduced number of electors present improved their own chances of become Christ's representative on earth.

  I know I sound cynical, not like the good Catholic you expected.

  Believe me, I've earned it.

  Once the chapel was sealed, in accordance with tradition, the Guards rotated through a watch bill. Unless the cardinals opened the door, we were to leave them undisturbed. It was a relief to get out of the isolation suit, though I kept a simple paper mask and gloves in place. They clashed with my traditional tricolor uniform of azure, scarlet and orange.

  As an officer, I didn't carry a polearm, but my basket rapier was fully functional, as was the SIG P220 pistol under my blouse. Two of the steadiest men in my section guarded the ornate double doors that led into the inner part of the Sistine Chapel.

  Fedlwebel Felix Boivin was marked as noncommissioned officer by the partisan, a sort of pike, that he carried in place of the regulation Guard halberd. He wouldn't normally guard a single door, but this wasn't an ordinary post. Boivin was Swiss-French, and his Italian retained the same Gallic accent as my own. He was flanked by Korporal Muller, a bull necked Swiss-German who'd watched the Polizia sweep up his younger brother during a fracas among the infected in the Square. But he'd stayed at his post.

  The rest of my section I posted singly at unused side entrances.

  The Chapel is only steps from St. Peter's Square. Its greatest protection is its appearance. From the outside it's largely nondescript, compared to the glory of the Basilica. For serious trouble, which we didn't expect, we also had some plain-clothed Guards whose MP7s were discreetly tucked into briefcases.

  The real action couldn't start until the Camerlengo returned. Oberstleutnant von Messen, our vice-commander, was also on hand. I relied on his link to our operations center via his low-profile earpiece and cuff mike. They'd all settled in for the first of what we assumed would be many watches, waiting for the cardinals to argue the merits of this or that candidate before holding several rounds of voting.

  Back in the 13th century, one election lasted two years, but the modern ones average three days. I was counting on one day, at most. The wearers of the crimson from beyond Rome were ready to return home nearly the moment that their slippered feet touched the gray concrete of the Vatican's helipad.

  The good news was that I guessed over long. The conclave didn't last even a single day.

  The bad news was that we didn't get a new pope out of it.

  We never did determine which cardinals carried the virus into the Sistine Chapel that day. The College takes its privacy very seriously and literally locks itself in the chapel. Hell, even the word "conclave" is drawn from “cum clave,” Latin for “with a key.” Over the years, acoustic insulation and thicker doors improved their isolation. The red wax seals on the ornate double doors were for show, but the reinforced locks and steel bars were quite real.

  However, like I've said, the cardinals are mostly older men. Appointed for life, they nonetheless suffer the limitations of the flesh and old men's bladders. As a result, if there is one thing that they like more than their comforts it's a predictable schedule. When no one came to admit our party, escorting the only man who could count the ballots for the papal election at the appointed hour, we were surprised.

  Four hours later, we were mildly alarmed. Why no phone, video teleconference or compu
ter, you ask? Why no externally accessible lock, you know, for emergencies? Why not give the Carmelengo a secret key?

  Tradition.

  Another hour passed.

  Daring mightily, von Messen sought the permission of Crivetto to open the vestibule grille, a sort of two-way peep hole. We couldn't see through to the other side, since the opposite grille was closed.

  But we could hear.

  And what we heard was screaming and fighting. Though past conclaves have been . . . exciting, this was a new thing, even in a world of rapidly devolving and unpleasant novelties.

  When the Cardinal Camerlengo bade us open the door, we had to use a gasoline powered saw. The ceramic blade initially chattered on the steel reinforced doors, before settling into a long scream that left our ears ringing, mercifully drowning out the terrible sounds within. The doors sprang inwards suddenly, and we were treated to a view of Hell.

  There was blood, bodies and parts of bodies everywhere. Immediately in front of the doors, a naked cardinal crouched over a freshly dead man whose robes were torn and pushed out of the way, exposing the soft abdomen and spilled purple entrails. The afflicted's bloody face was pure feral hate, and it growled as if daring us to take its prey. Howls and screams rose even higher around the room as several more infected stood from their gory meals.

  The Gendarme sergeant with the saw had stepped involuntarily into the room as the doors yielded, pulled inside by the weight of the cutting tool. I saw as he began to recoil, horrified at the sights before us.

  Faster than thought, he was knocked sideways by another zombie.

  I thought I recognized his Eminence from Argentina, but von Messen had drawn his pistol as the doors were cut open and was already servicing targets. Hastened by the regular metronome of my commander's fire, I almost fumbled my own pistol, but managed to get my first rounds into another zombie that staggered towards us, slowed by terrible wounds that exposed the lower bones of one leg. The Gendarme was screaming and trying to scramble backwards across the blood slicked floor, his saw abandoned.

  I'm ashamed to say that my marksmanship was not the magical thing that always seemed to be the case in American action films. After stopping the lurching infected, I ran through rest of my entire magazine, trying and failing to drop the second infected. Korporal Muller was behind me, and even as the infected closed to grabbing distance, Muller ran his halberd straight into its throat.

  The zombie fought and struggled to get around the polearm, its hands pulling at the shaft. Muller was shaken like a fisherman overcome by the ferocious jerking motions of a giant catch, but he kept the zombie a safe meter away from me as it weakened, and blood pulsed out around the exposed part of halberd blade. The distinctive rattle of a MP7 rang in my ears, deepening the tinnitus that already sang so loudly as to nearly drown out everything else.

  Enough of the 9mm rounds found the zombie's head that it dropped to the worn tiles of the chapel.

  "Back two steps, and rally!" von Messen screamed, even as he stooped to help the wounded sergeant, still scrabbling on the floor. "Close the doors!"

  In that moment, there wasn't time to puzzle out how in heaven so many of the College turned in so short a time. Later, we determined that there were only twelve mobile infected left when we broke in. We also found out the how. But at the time, it seemed like all the zombies in the world were charging us, keening and screaming for our life's blood.

  Von Messen had given up on helping the sergeant to his feet and simply towed him backwards through the ruined doors, fighting the pull of an infected who still maintained a literal death grip on the injured man. The trio left a broad smear of scarlet across the black and white mosaic tile.

  Boivin drove the head of his partisan through one of the zombie's arms, searching for connective tissue to cut the policeman free. I finally completed my magazine change. More of my section had clattered up, and their sturdy halberds held off the struggling zombies that were gathering around the open doorway. Even at touching distance it is very easy to pull your shot and strike the wrong target. With exquisite care, I stretched, placing the muzzle of my pistol nearly in contact before shooting the infected off the sergeant.

  One more hard tug and we were through. As soon as the second door closed, we stood panting.

  And bleeding.

  The gendarme sergeant was bitten in multiple places. Round-eyed, he looked at the worst of it, a great scallop of missing flesh on one calf, and tried to squeeze his wounds closed with his shaking hands. By now, we all knew what a bite from an infected meant. I exchanged a look with von Messen as he barked orders into his wrist microphone, demanding that a first aid team join us at the doors of the chapel.

  "Herr Oberstleutnant," I began, staring at his hand.

  Our vice-commander glanced down and grimaced. A set of tooth punctures wept red death across his wrist.

  ###

  "This man murdered His Holiness!" yelled the archbishop. His cloth of gold robes flapped as he gesticulated wildly. "And then he killed the vice-commander of the Papal Guard!"

  Seated at the right hand of the Camerlengo, he flung one arm outwards, pointing towards the place where I was standing against the wall.

  The Camerlengo had called an emergency meeting of the senior surviving officials. The excited archbishop was screaming himself hoarse at my presence and was becoming borderline hysterical. I can't say that it was making me any calmer, considering what I had just been asked to do not even half an hour earlier.

  For the second time.

  "Please calm down—" Cardinal Crivetto tried to interrupt.

  ". . . and now you've promoted him into the victim's place! He murdered his commanding officer! And you reward him? You're insane! He's insane! You—"

  Crack!

  Crivetto's calloused right hand left a white splotch on the archbishop's cheek. Stunned into silence, the archbishop raised a manicured hand to touch the numbed skin.

  Like I said.

  Pragmatist.

  "Archbishop Tangretti, please to calm yourself," said Crivetto in a loud and clear voice, spanning the shock of the now quiet officials who were gathered around the antique gilt meeting table.

  Believe it or not, even a tiny country like the Vatican needs a proper government. Ours is called the Roman Curia. The simplest description is to call it the Cabinet of the Roman Catholic Church. The heads of each department are always cardinals. There's a department of commerce, a department of communications, we even have a secretary of state. Okay, we had a secretary of state.

  Now we had a deputy secretary of state. And Crivetto had just slapped him to silence.

  The Camerlengo hadn't changed his black cassock since we'd resealed the Sistine Chapel. One of Muller's especially energetic blows with the halberd had splashed several feet. We'd disinfected our exposed skin and changed masks, but that was all. The dry blood stains on Crivetto's wide red belt had darkened, nearly matching the coarse fabric of the working uniform underneath.

  Idly, I wondered if anyone else recognized the stains for what they were.

  Cardinal Crivetto, having firmly established who was in charge of the meeting, continued speaking.

  "There are pressing matters at hand which demand our attention, so I will only address this once," the Camerlengo said. "Hauptman Gagliardi is here at my personal request. As you all well know, he did not murder His Holiness. Instead he valiantly defended the passengers in the elevator when His Holiness very suddenly succumbed to virus. With his last lucid thought, the Holy Father understood what was happening, recognized the peril to the group and forgave Gagliardi for the necessity."

  He stared around the table, meeting each the eyes of each official in turn.

  I stared across the narrow chamber, focused on a point a thousand meters away.

  "When the senior surviving officer of the Pontifical Swiss Guard was infected only an hour ago, he, too, recognized the danger that his illness represented, and knowing that suicide is a mortal sin, begged the
Hauptman to end his life. I pray to God with thanks that we have strength such as this officer left in our ranks, especially now."

  A few of officials looked like they wanted to object, but they only darted glances at reddening mark on Archbishop Tangretti's face.

  "The mother church is at mortal risk," Crivetto went on. "His Holiness is dead. The entire Conclave is likewise dead. There are doubtless infected staff and dependents inside the Vatican. Unless we move swiftly to contain the infection and protect the Faithful, we risk everything."

  "Your Eminence, what do you propose?" asked Archbishop Atherton-Clive. "His Holiness, may God grant him peace, set forth very specific guidance on these matters, conforming to the most hallowed doctrine. We cannot divert from his path unless redirected by a new pontiff."

  The deputy vicar of Rome and vice-regent was very much a member of the existing power structure. Atherton-Clive been appointed by the late pope's predecessor. Though a member of the Familia Pontificalis, or papal family, his office oversaw the diocese of Rome and had no real authority in Curia matters. However, his boss had been a significant political player in Church politics. The vicar of Rome had also been a cardinal.

  I think that he was the one that Muller took in the throat.

  "This emergency is without precedent, Your Grace," responded Cardinal Crivetto. "And you'll of course pardon me if I recall to you that the Vicar of Rome and his deputy are invited to the Curia as a courtesy only."

  If the vice-regent was concerned with the reminder, he didn't show it.

  "Still, Your Eminence," Atherton-Clive replied, waving away the objection. "The point stands. We can't arbitrarily select which doctrines and traditions we'll follow and which we'll dispense with in the name of expediency. Just as it is doctrine that I'm present as a courtesy—" He smiled unctuously. "—so too is it true that only the pontiff may change a standing Papal Encyclical."

 

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