Forbidden Sanctuary

by Richard Bowker

  Hopeless, Zanla thought as Angela translated. The distance is too great; we cannot begin to understand each other. And for the first time since his initial Voyage, Zanla questioned the will of the Ancients. Of what value was any of this? Why cross the Universe, to stare into this old man's eyes and realize you both were doomed?

  The Pope shifted in his seat and spoke, very softly. Angela looked at him and said something in return. The Pope spoke again. Angela seemed to become very upset and started to reply, but the Pope silenced her with a gesture and directed her to translate.

  "Take me instead," she said softly, in Numian.

  Zanla was confused. "You, Angela? What do I need of you?"

  She moved her head back and forth in disagreement. "His Holiness says: take him instead of Tenon. A trade." The Pope spoke some more, and she translated quickly. "Perhaps your people will forgive you if you return with one of the most important members of the alien race. They need not know the conditions of the trade. Perhaps they will see it as a bold and daring maneuver on your part. Certainly it could not be seen as weakness. You take a chance that the secret of your travel will be discovered. But believe me, we are a curious, restless race, and simply knowing that the problem can be solved is enough to ensure that someday it will be, with or without Tenon. Just by coming here and meeting us you have made it impossible for your civilization ever to be the same again. So you might as well get something in return for that. I cannot tell you precisely how to make bombs or computers or televisions, but I can tell you much—more than anyone cleared by the United Nations, for example, who would tell you only what our governments want you to know. Take me and leave Tenon behind."

  Zanla listened closely to the reasoning, but the reasoning meant less to him than a sudden image: of an old man leaning on a stick as he crossed a cobblestoned courtyard, heavy robes draped limply over his slight figure. It was Elial, the last time Zanla had seen him, having forgiven Zanla and set his course straight for the future, going back inside to prepare for death like a true Numian. All his life Zanla had tried to measure up to the standards Elial had set for him, and always he had fallen short. Just as, perhaps, Numos had always fallen short of Elial's expectations for it. Elial should have been one of the Ancients. He was meant to create, not to carry on.

  And here was the source of the image: this old alien, sitting across from him, reminded him of Elial. Proof, if any were still needed, of the ultimate similarity of the races. This man shared the same tired dignity, the same air of having been born in the wrong time and place, the same quiet intelligence. Was this, then, an insight? Should he follow the Pope's advice as he would have followed Elial's?

  Another image appeared: Elial questioning. "What is the most difficult action?"

  "Tell me, Master."

  "It is the one that must give of self. And why is that the most difficult action?"

  "Tell me, Master."

  Elial put his palms out toward his pupil. "Because we never really know what it is that we give."

  Zanla looked across at the old man giving of self. If Zanla accepted, what was it that he would receive?

  He did not know.

  * * *

  Ergentil's eyes wandered over the pages of the Chronicle of the Ancients, but for once she could not concentrate on them, they made no sense. Below her, on the third level, Zanla was meeting with the enemy, and perhaps the future of her planet was being decided. Perhaps it had already been decided: it would not be unlike Zanla to tell her nothing, to let her find out from a junior officer that the meeting was over, that all had been settled, that Departure was imminent....

  She stifled her anger; it was pointless. What mattered was the result, not how she was treated. If he ignored her and saved Numos, what did she have to complain of? And really, it had not been so bad lately—the shared crisis, if it had not made them as close as bondmates should be, at least had not driven them farther apart.

  She tried again to focus on the Chronicle. She needed wisdom, and this was the only place she knew to find it.

  "You set quite a good example, Priestess. I am hesitant to disturb you."

  She shut the book and looked up at Zanla standing in the doorway, ill at ease as usual. She said nothing. Eventually he entered and walked past her. His back to her, he examined her austere wall coverings portraying events in the lives of great priestesses. He had seen them a hundred times already. What did he want? "Will the Pope return Tenon?" she asked.

  The wall coverings remained quite interesting. She controlled her temper. "Why are you here, if you will not speak to me?" she whispered.

  Zanla turned finally. "No, he will not return Tenon," he replied.

  She had expected as much. "Then what has happened?"

  "He has made an offer." Zanla began to pace. He couldn't go far in the small room. Ergentil's gaze followed him. "He has offered to come with us instead of Tenon. A trade."

  Ergentil tried to make sense of this piece of news. "We leave Tenon in their hands, and take their leader instead?"

  "Precisely."

  "And did you accept this offer?"

  His pacing continued. There is no way out, Ergentil thought. The question must still be answered, sooner or later. "It is a reasonable solution to the problem," Zanla said. "At least we get something in exchange for Tenon. The man can tell us much. An alien in person will mean more to the Council than all our notes and reports."

  A few days ago she would have screamed invective at him. Now... something had changed. She breathed deeply and stood up. Zanla stopped pacing and looked at her. "You cannot do it," she said. "Whatever you decide, Zanla, you cannot bring their leader to Numos."

  Zanla closed his eyes. "Why not?"

  "Because it is exactly what they want. As soon as this Pope is on Numos he will be in touch with the Chitlanians. His very presence—his very existence—will give them strength. And meanwhile, back here, the humans can still interrogate Tenon. Before very long we will be attacked on two fronts: from space, and on Numos itself."

  "Tenon knows nothing," Zanla said. "And we can keep the Pope guarded."

  "Tenon knows about the bonding and the retheo, which is more than the Earth scientists do. And who is to say that the Pope's guard will not be another secret Chitlanian? Think of the risk, Zanla."

  "There is risk in everything we do now. The Pope is an old man. He will not do us harm."

  "He can do us nothing but harm. Will he help us eliminate the Chitlanians? Will he help us develop weapons to fight off an invasion from Earth? What will you achieve by bringing him back with us?"

  Zanla was silent for a while, his eyes open now, staring at the floor. Ergentil sat back down, waiting for his response. "Perhaps it is time we changed," he murmured, "exposed ourselves to new ideas, looked to the future instead of the past. Perhaps this is where the weight of events is pushing us. Perhaps this is what the Ancients wanted us to do, what they hoped would come of these Voyages: the next step, the next twist of the spiral—"

  "It is not your decision," Ergentil interrupted, her voice suddenly harsh. "You cannot risk the safety of Numos based on some muddled interpretation of the Chronicle. You do not have that right. If our future will be as you describe it, then it must come without your assistance."

  "I am the Master of this Ship," Zanla replied coldly. "The Council has chosen me to make these decisions for Numos. Not you, not my officers. I am the one who brought us to these people. I will decide what risks we will take with them."

  Ergentil stared up at him, and she realized that nothing could be left unsaid now, no weapon could be left unused. His own words revealed the problem. She would ignore it no longer. "Do you dare endanger our race just to prove you are not a coward?" she asked evenly, watching his body become rigid with tension. "Will you go to any length to atone for your mistake?"

  "I don't know—"

  "Oh, the Masters are kind, to one of their own. They hush these things up, if they decide you are worthy of a second chance. But
of course the Priestesses know: such knowledge is our only power. Arthea described it to me, when she heard you were to be Master of this Voyage. She told me how, on her Voyage, the moment of Departure arrived and the silence was shattered by the scream of a young novice breaking his bond, running in fear from the retheo, unable to face the instant when the blackness of the mind can become the blackness of death. 'What are we coming to,' she said to me, 'when such a man can become a Master? How can anything he does be trusted, after such a despicable act?'"

  "I am not a coward," Zanla whispered.

  "Perhaps not, but you do not think anyone else believes that. And your every action, your every decision must be colored by your need to demonstrate it. You cannot separate the needs of the Numoi from your own needs. You must back down, but you no longer know how."

  "I am capable—otherwise the Council would not have made me a Master."

  "Look into your soul," Ergentil replied, "and see if that is true."

  They glared at each other for a moment, and then the tension seemed to ooze out of Zanla. He sat down next to her on the edge of the bed, his body hunched like a cripple's, his chin quivering. Ergentil thought: what if I were to put my hand on his shoulder, make some gesture to show that, after all, I sympathize with him in his dilemma? Would it help him?

  Perhaps, but there was still a gap between them. She could not bridge it yet. So she sat and watched him struggle, wondering which of a thousand other arguments she should bring up, wondering if any of them would make a difference.

  "I have made no decision," Zanla said when he had regained control of himself. "The Pope is still waiting on the third level. I told him I had to... talk it over."

  "And now that you have talked it over?" Ergentil asked softly, wondering why she was not very surprised at this disclosure.

  He stretched out his palms. "I do not know."

  * * *

  "If you go, you will need an interpreter," Angela said after a while.

  Clement turned to her and smiled. "You are very young, my child. There is no guarantee that we would ever be able to return."

  "You should not go alone, Holiness."

  He did not reply. He looked tired, and very old. The strain on him must have been unbearable. Angela wanted to hold his hand, to straighten his slightly tilted skullcap, to tell him all would be well. But would it?

  The guard began to fidget. Deep in her own thoughts, Angela ignored her at first. And when the guard spoke, she tried to ignore that as well. It can't be happening again, she thought. We can't be returning to the beginning of the pattern.

  "I believe this person is trying to communicate with us," Clement said quietly.

  Angela gazed at the guard. She was young, with deep-set eyes and long straight hair. Mildly pretty by Earth standards. And very frightened.

  "My name is Sabbata. You are the people holding Tenon, aren't you?"

  Angela translated for Clement. "We are not holding him, Sabbata," Clement replied. "He came to us for sanctuary. We have given it to him."

  "Yes, yes, I understand. I was his bondmate, you see."

  "What is a bondmate?" Clement asked Angela. She had never heard the term before, so she relayed the question to Sabbata.

  The alien looked confused. "A bondmate is the one you're together with—the one you reach out to, and your minds become one. Like when you use the retheo—when things change, and the power comes, and the Ship—but I have a message for him, you see. If he will hear it. If he is interested."

  "We will give him the message, if it is within our power," Clement said.

  "Tell him please that I have felt his happiness. Tell him whatever he has done, whatever will happen, I am glad he is happy."

  Clement nodded. "He will be told."

  Was that all, Angela wondered: no plea for sanctuary too, no new complication, just a simple, affectionate message? It was as if sunlight had suddenly broken through the clouds. It was not the beginning of the pattern but, perhaps, its completion—the closing of the circle. Angela smiled back at Sabbata. Even Clement seemed more at ease. Then there were footsteps in the corridor, the smiles faded, and Zanla returned.

  Zanla's face was a blank. He bowed formally and motioned the guard away. Then he sat down and stared at Clement. "You are a very brave man," he said. "I admire you. But I must ask you once again to give up my crew member. That truly seems to me to be the fairest solution to this problem."

  "I cannot. I am very sorry, but I must do what I feel is right."

  He continued to stare. "So must we all," he murmured finally, then fell silent again. Say it, Angela prayed. Don't prolong his agony. "I am sorry that I cannot accept your proposal. The risks to Numos are too great."

  Angela turned to Clement. The blood had gone from his face—she had never seen a man so pale. There was a thin film of sweat on his forehead. "And your threat?" he asked.

  Zanla spread his hands mournfully. "I thank you for your offer, but I must have Tenon back."

  Clement seemed to be having trouble breathing. "Then there is no more to be said," he whispered. He struggled to rise. Angela rushed to help him. Zanla looked away.

  "Your Holiness, should I get someone?" she asked.

  "No, no. It will be all right. It will... pass."

  But in the corridor he had to stop as the tears rolled down his face. "I am too old for this sort of thing. Too old." Angela gave him her handkerchief. He leaned against her as he tried to regain control of himself. "Please don't tell anyone, Angela. It wouldn't do."

  Tell anyone about his offer—or his tears? No matter. She would say nothing about any of it. He squeezed her hand, finally, and they headed out into the raw New England morning.

  Chapter 25

  Clement walked slowly over to the crowd of officials by the motel.

  "Can you give us any news, Holiness?" Ashanti asked.

  "Nothing is changed."

  "The threat is still in force?"

  He nodded. "Please excuse me now. I must rest and pray."

  "Can't we talk further about this?"

  "It would serve no purpose." He motioned to Collingwood and headed for his limousine.

  As they drove back to the rectory Clement rested his head against the top of the seat and closed his eyes. He could feel Collingwood's stare on him, but he was not in the mood for explanations.

  "I will have to have something for the reporters," Collingwood said finally.

  "You may tell them what I told Ashanti."

  Collingwood shrugged resentfully. "As you wish."

  Back at the rectory, Clement passed through the milling crowds of functionaries, refused luncheon, and went directly to his room. "Keep everyone away from me, Marcello," he instructed his valet, who quickly lowered the shades and turned down the bed.

  "Perhaps a pill, Holiness?" Marcello inquired.

  Clement waved the suggestion away. He did not need medication, he needed... what? To cry some more? To wallow in self-pity? No, no, to rest. Only to rest. Marcello left him. He lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling, gray with years of soot from a polluted world. In the distance a siren wailed—a fire? someone dying? or a dignitary like himself, being rushed along the highway to some futile meeting? Seventeen percent fewer communicants, twenty-four percent fewer baptisms. The faces twisted with rage, hating him, yelling obscenities at him.

  He shut his eyes and pressed down on an imaginary accelerator. He had not driven in years. The idea was exhilarating: the car immediately responding to his wishes, faster, faster, until the faces were a blur, a memory, and there was only himself, in a warm cocoon of invisibility, traveling farther and farther away: light-years away.

  The Apostolic Palace had turned into a blue pyramid. The crowds were outside, filling up Saint Peter's Square; none knew the secret but him. Things change, the power comes. Was it he who disappeared, or the crowds? No matter. He was alone, on a new world, and the problems were not his to solve. The new people were friendly, but they could not understand a wor
d he said. He walked down a pathway and raised his hand in automatic blessing of the passersby, and they ignored him. He knelt to pray, and there was no one to pray for but himself.

  Things change. Collingwood was staring at him disgustedly. "It's only a dream, Holiness. Nuns are being murdered in Bangkok." And Fontanelli, the ash on his cigarette impossibly long: "The tax bill, you know, the broken stained glass." And Capelli, longing to take his place: "Hand that creature back to whoever owns it." He reached out to Angela for her handkerchief (still have it, must return it). "Too old," he whispered, "too old." She squeezed his hand, but he still had to walk out into the cold and face them again....

  His eyes blinked open, and saw only darkness. With a groan he swung himself up out of bed and walked over to the window. He peered out from behind the drawn shade at a leaden twilight. Cold seeped in through the badly fitted casement. He returned to the bed, got down on his knees by its side, and prayed.

  * * *

  Clement dined by himself in his room, and only after he was finished did he send for Collingwood. "Anthony, I want you to find out for me how I go about resigning."

  "Resigning?" Collingwood repeated.

  "Resigning the Papacy. I wish to yield the office as soon as it is feasible."

  Collingwood stared at him silently. Clement was childishly pleased for a moment at the effect he had produced. And then he realized what it meant to Collingwood: his own career would be ended too. He would never get another post as influential as the one he had now. His ambition could not be fed on memories.

  I am being selfish, he thought. My decision affects too many others.