“Show me the location ellipse for the signal, damn it,” San radioed.
Green lines of a topo-map popped onto the glass of her helmet, showing her as a red arrow that now moved toward a blinking red ellipse. It distracted her from the sadness. A breeze consisting of almost nothing blew overhead, outside the canyon, and San looked up to see a faint shower of silver flakes cascading off the canyon lip so they settled into shadow, whispering a reminder to stay in the present and forget—for now—what couldn’t be changed.
“There’s nothing there. It’s just more ice.”
“That is the beacon location,” the ship insisted.
“Recalculate and make . . .”
San stopped talking when movement caught her attention. Part of the canyon ice in front of her gave way and sent a shower of shards onto the shelf, the faint Ganymede atmosphere transmitting the noise to her audio pickups as a soft thud, almost inaudible. Warm yellow light spilled from the opening, out of which a small figure shuffled, a person wearing a black environment suit whose thick armor plating had been emblazoned with white crosses. The figure wore a phase shifter. Its cloak rose in another light breeze, the moon’s gravity so weak that San imagined it would continue to billow upward, carrying its wearer aloft on a pale kite.
“I’ve seen you,” she whispered, forgetting that her radio was active.
“Of course you’ve seen me, child. If you couldn’t see us, you never would have found your way.” The voice was that of an old woman. It cracked but San sensed a tone of command, carrying threats that never had to be enunciated; they just were.
“Come.” The woman motioned for San to move toward the opening. “You’re the last one to arrive, San Kyarr, and we’ll have to get rid of that damn scout ship you stole.”
“There’s a voice. I hear things.”
“Have you had a serious head injury or are you simple and dim-witted from birth? Of course you heard a voice. We sent that message. And I know what you’re wondering: no there is no orbital station on Ganymede. We couldn’t very well send our exact coordinates because if one of you got captured and was forced to talk, you’d give it away.”
“But I had to steal a ship. To get here.”
The woman sighed. “Yes. And every one of your classmates stole a civilian ship. But not you. You stole a military vessel, a Fleet fast scout equipped with semi-aware logic controllers and, with them, a closet full of tracking devices.”
The woman turned and shuffled back toward the opening in the canyon wall, returning to the yellow light. “I won’t repeat myself. Get inside or die out here on the shelf. It’s the last choice you’ll get to make for some time.”
San bounced after the woman, moving side to side to minimize her upward arc. She bounded through an outer airlock door, just as it slid shut to cut her off from the outside, from Ganymede, and the two removed their helmets.
The old woman wore the head covering of a nun and a small line of stubble at the top of her forehead suggested she’d shaved her head bald. “You’re a Proelian,” San said.
“Of course I’m a Proelian. What did you think? That Fleet would send you a message and convince you to steal one of their ships?”
“No . . . I mean . . . I don’t understand. Why is your order out here, in space? How did you get here?”
“There is so much for you to learn, child. The lucky thing is that you’ve already learned it. All we have to do is unlock your mind.”
The inner door opened and San stopped, placing a gloved hand against one wall and squinting in the yellow light cast by illum-bots—spherical things that kept aloft in the low gravity by squirting invisible jets of gas—whose lower sections shone with a string of old incandescent lights. The walls, she marveled. San removed one of her suit gloves to touch wood, real wood beams, that stretched upward to form curves that met at a sharp point overhead, reminding her of the pictures she’d seen of old churches and cathedrals on Earth. San had never been in one. But the wood felt and even smelled real, giving an odor that screamed of ancient Earth and history, as if the material had recorded memories in its cellulose, recollections stretching back centuries.
“It’s from Rome,” the woman said. “The wood is original. Come. You’re already late and we have to open that brain of yours to let all the junk out.”
“Rome? On Earth?”
“What other Rome is there, child?”
“But how did you get it all here? It must have cost a fortune. Where did you get the resources to pay for it?”
“If I tell you, will you please hurry and follow me?”
San nodded.
“The Sommen. They recovered as much old structural material that they could from our churches and cathedrals, and gave us this place; it only took them a month to build. It was the one way we could have survived the wars on Earth. Since then, Fleet has added to it.”
“The Sommen? But how . . .”
The old woman cut her off. “No more questions. Move.”
The pair bounced down to the corridor’s end where it opened into an arched antechamber, artificial candles humming to life. Against one wall was a row of cubicles. The old woman gestured to one, moving into her own cubicle at the other end.
“Get in and take off your environment suit. There will be a pair of coveralls and a cloak for warmth. We minimize temperature controls to conserve power.”
“But what . . .”
“Get dressed and meet me by the double doors. The time for questions will come, child.”
San closed the door and shivered. Cold air already made its way into her suit at the neck and once she pulled off her second gauntlet, the air pushed its way through her undersuit. Her teeth chattered. The coveralls were plain green ones, a thick wool material backed with a layer of cotton on the inside, over which she draped a cream-colored woolen cloak that clipped across her neck, finishing with soft boots slipped onto her feet. By the time she exited the old woman already waited outside, frowning while she grasped the frame of large, wooden double doors.
“You are slow.”
San struggled to keep the cloak from waving around her face. “Why these clothes? Why not a jacket that won’t constantly get in the way and why wool? There are better fabrics, synthetic ones.”
“Discomfort is a tool. It stimulates nerve endings to help break down mental resistance, a little at a time. When the mind’s edges fray, the rest of it opens to experience. Stress and agony will be your closest companions for quite some time.”
“Why would you want that—for anyone’s mind to ‘fray’?”
“There are many things we want, but only some we need. And all of them carry grave risks. You showed promise, child. Now show us that you can survive. You are about to face your next test, the one that determines if you can be a member of Fleet after all.”
The woman pushed a button so the doors swung open and San’s jaw dropped at the size of the chapel beyond, as if an entire medieval cathedral had been constructed under Ganymede’s surface. It had tall pointed arches identical to the ones in the corridor outside. Countless stained glass windows, dark in the absence of sunlight, lined the walls and at the far end a huge one filled the space over the altar—a square dais, atop which was a deep-gray stone block. It looked as though it had been carved from a local source. Into the rock had been embedded banks of electronics and thick black cables so that, at least from a distance, San wondered if instead of an altar it was something else. She was squinting at it when the woman grabbed her arm.
“Do not move into the nave!” she hissed. “You have not earned the right. This way.”
The woman guided them around to a side aisle and as they moved forward in light gravity, San noticed that the pews near the altar were occupied. A group of five people stood watching, all of them dressed in the same manner. Their cloak hoods had been pulled low to mask their faces in shadow but next to them stood four Proelian nuns in black robes, the women’s heads bare and hairless, shining under artificial light. They
watched as the old woman pushed San forward and onto the dais, where she turned her attention from her audience to the altar.
“There is blood on it,” she whispered.
“Yes, child. But it dried long ago. Climb up and lie on your back, with your head resting on the padded section closest to you.”
“Why?”
“We are preparing for the nocturn.”
“I’m not getting up there. Tell me what’s going on. What’s the nocturn?”
San stepped back, trying to put part of the altar between herself and the nun. She had barely moved when the old woman’s left hand flicked out from beneath her robes and grabbed San’s wrist in a bony grip, hurting as it squeezed tighter. The right hand held a metal device. It wrapped around the woman’s fingers, the palm side covered with hair-thin needles. The old nun slammed the device against San’s back, sending its points through both cloak and coveralls so they pierced her skin.
Her back ignited with fire. San screamed and imagined that the woman had turned her spinal cord into the wick of a candle and without realizing it she’d obeyed the old woman’s orders—climbing onto the altar and lying still as one of the other nuns stepped forward. She began strapping San down. When it was finished, the old woman withdrew her hand, allowing San to breathe.
“What was that?” she asked.
“A means to control. A device that sends electrical impulses through your spine to render your somatic nervous system more susceptible to suggestion and orders.”
“What are you doing to me?”
“The nocturn; it’s the next step in your development. I slice open your scalp to reaccess your old cranial data port. Then we reconnect you to one of our training semi-awares to help you access the old lessons. You don’t remember, but I was there, child. When you were born. Your mother knew what was best and during your time in Fleet data tanks, our order added an additional training regimen to the standard programs.”
“I don’t remember anything related to the Proelians.”
“I already told you that you wouldn’t remember; we designed the plan that way. Your lessons have been stored deep inside a part of your brain that can only be activated with the procedure I’m about to begin. Until I finish, there is no way for you to recall what was pushed into your mind.”
San noticed the flash of metal from the corner of her eye: a scalpel.
“No!”
“Child, we appreciate the old ways for some things. Be still.”
“I do not give permission!”
“You will learn to hate me. Permission is a matter of perspective.”
San struggled against the straps. They cut into her wrists and ankles, and the one across her forehead cinched itself tighter each time she pulled against it. She gave up, crying. A moment later San heard the buzz of an electric razor, which skimmed her scalp just above where her head rested. Then there was silence. Soon, a murmured prayer began from the group watching from the pews, and San felt a pressure against her scalp. A searing pain tore through when the blade cut down to her skull.
“Shush, child. No screaming. Almost there.”
“I want to go home.”
“I’m about to reconnect you with our semi-aware. You must know certain things. First, do not struggle. Let the memories and lessons flow around and through your thoughts. They will be a tidal wave; if you fight, you will drown and your nervous system will shut down. Second, do not try to understand. What I am about to release into your consciousness are memories, not experiences, and if you try to understand all at once you will go mad. Then we will have to send you to the institution, where you’ll live out the rest of your life, insane and useless.”
“Do most survive the nocturn?” San whispered.
“Of the five you saw in the pews, there were originally fifteen. So, no. They do not.”
The old woman slammed a cable into the rear of San’s head and her vision erupted with sparks and glowing orbs, coalescing into a single brightness that overpowered everything. San stopped struggling. The first memories came in a trickle, a gentle wash of sensory input so real that she was now an infant, suspended in a tank of gel and the warmth of safety. Without warning the next set of memories hit. San writhed on the table, straps cutting into her skin so that blood dripped off her forehead and wrists, while lessons in combat, history, and the Church broke free from where they’d been waiting; they invaded her brain, elbowing past anything that got in the way and making their presence known with a scream. How could they have done this to me, San thought. To infants . . . While the assault continued, she heard a new voice muttering to the old nun.
“Her heart rate and brain wave patterns, Your Reverence.”
“I see them.”
“The others never saw this much pain; will you let this continue or end it for her?”
“We will let it play out. I will not prematurely stop what could be exactly what we need to counteract Zhelnikov’s atrocities. That thing he created will end us if we don’t take some risks. Zhelnikov’s monster may not be the beast, but he is almost certainly the beast’s prophet, and to do good we must be guilty of a slight evil.”
San grunted with the torture, trying her best to ignore the women, the additional sensory input almost too much for her to handle when the flood of memories peaked into a crushing flow of input. Pain made her clench and unclench both fists, opening wounds where her fingernails split both palms.
“Perhaps at least an analgesic, Your Reverence.”
“Step back,” the old woman said. “Step back. You are not welcome here, Sister. I will manage this. There will be no sedatives.”
Suddenly it ended. San inhaled when the last memory flowed out of storage, snapping into place the final part of a toy model, the ones she had built with her father so long ago. New information weighed on her thoughts. She imagined that her brain had just been saddled with an overstuffed pack, one that made autonomic functions struggle under the weight of new requirements and tears ran from both eyes.
“I need food,” San whispered. Her eyes fluttered open to see the old nun grinning. “Salty food.”
“You did it, child. I must say I’m pleased with your performance.”
“I need something salty.”
“I should say you do. We will hook you up to a saline drip immediately; the test and unpacking forces the brain to use a lot of sodium during signal processing. All electrolytes get dangerously depleted. How do you feel, child?”
“Squeezed. Empty.”
The old nun patted San’s hand and shook her head. “Nonsense. You, child, are a weapon now loaded. Full. And maybe our most formidable weapon yet.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Win sensed that part of him, an old segment of his brain not yet transformed, recognized the scenery as something familiar and it urged him to turn back—to revert to the way he was, a human. He stepped down the ramp in a jerky series of movements. Rolling hills surrounded him and the transport, their tops a deep green with trees that swayed in a strong breeze, and his display shifted temperature readings every few seconds but the numbers stayed within a range of sixty-two to sixty-four degrees Fahrenheit; it would have felt pleasant against bare skin, Win thought.
His legs clicked down the ramp. Although the distant hills were green, the area where they’d landed was a sea of black, where no grass would ever grow because the soil itself had been fused into a dirty kind of glass, melted to the point where Win tested its depth out of curiosity. He slammed one spiked leg down. Nothing happened. It took several tries to break through, smashing a section of the earth to show that the glass was at least three inches thick.
“The Sommen,” Zhelnikov said.
“Of course, the Sommen. Who else?”
“They hit here soon after their arrival. It has always been a mystery. Nobody came to visit this place, it had no military presence, and only a few crazy old nuns and monks occupied it.”
“What do you mean, mystery?”
“This used to be
an important religious site. A shrine, hundreds of years old. There were many buildings, most of which eventually crumbled into ruin of disuse. The Sommen sent an entire force here and then to Rome. They destroyed everything, and left nothing but glass in their wake. We never figured out why.”
“That is because you have no eyes to see. I figured it out in Hong Kong. All these years and you, the smartest man in Fleet, couldn’t see what was right in front of you all along. Rome is empty. But here they left something behind.”
“Win, I assure you; there is nothing here.”
“Come.”
Win ticked forward, the suit rubbing blisters on his shoulders and forcing him to wince with each misstep; he had learned to control the servos to an extent but his neural changes made the interface, which had been designed for human brains, less forgiving of any differences in thought pattern or electrical current. He gritted his teeth in frustration. Instead of exploring a vast expanse of possible futures that stretched like a flat landscape within his mind, Win had to concentrate on moving each leg to make sure he walked in the right direction. One of his guards moved too close. Win smiled and ignored the screams around him to stop. He slammed one of his spikes through the top of the man’s helmet, then watched as it sprang from the center of his chest, trailing a streamer of blood that slid down the metal leg. He breathed with the satisfaction of having killed something and barked into his radio for everyone to keep moving. Listening briefly to Zhelnikov’s angry protests, Win eventually hissed that it was an accident before switching his radio off.
He led the group across the glass, cresting a small rise where they pushed through tall grass and weeds, an ocean of green and yellow punctuated with white flowers that reminded Win of stars. He forgot that his brain had become something new; Win remembered his first moments in America, so long ago when his father had taken them to the mountains of South Carolina where they’d hiked and camped for days. It was one of the few occasions Win recalled that his father hadn’t been forced to spend all his free time looking for a job, anything that would pay even just a little for rice. He was so deep in thought that Win almost missed the shrine; his left front leg crashed through it, sending a statue of the Virgin Mary to roll through the grass.
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