The Rise of Endymion hc-4

by Дэн Симмонс

  Kindle our senses from on high,

  And calm the hearts of those to die;

  With patience firm and virtue high

  The weakness of our flesh supply.

  Far from us drive the foe we dread,

  And grant to us Your wrath instead;

  So shall we not, with You for guide,

  Allow the victory be denied.

  Oh, may your grace on us bestow

  The Father and the Son to know;

  And you, through endless times confessed,

  Of both the eternal Spirit blest.

  Now to the Father and the Son,

  Who rose from death, be glory given,

  Before You, O Holy Sword and Shield,

  Be all in Pax and Heaven driven,

  His Holiness Pope Urban XVI. And all the foes of Christ must yield.

  All. Amen.

  Exit His Holiness and the Master of Ceremonies.

  Instead of returning to his Apostolic Apartments, the Pope led his cardinal to a small room off the Sistine Chapel.

  “The Room of Tears,” said Cardinal Lourdusamy. “I’ve not been in here for years.”

  It was a small room with brown floor tiles aged to a black hue, red flock wallpaper, low, medieval-vaulted ceilings, harsh lighting from a few gold wall sconces, no windows but heavy and incongruous white drapes along one scarlet wall. The room was barely furnished—an odd red settee in one corner, a small, black table-cum-altar with a white linen cloth, and a skeletal framework in the center upon which hung an ancient, yellowed, and somewhat unsettling alb and chasuble, with two white and absurdly decorated shoes nearby, the toes curling with age.

  “The vestment belonged to Pope Pius XII,” said the Pontiff. “He donned it here in 1939 after his election. We had it taken from the Vatican Museum and set out here. We visit it upon occasion.”

  “Pope Pius XII,” mused Cardinal Lourdusamy. The Secretary of State tried to recall any special significance of that long-dead Pope. All he could think of was the disturbing statue of Pius XII done almost two millennia ago—in 1964—by Francesco Messina, now relegated to a subterranean corridor beneath the Vatican. Messina’s Pius XII is shown in rough strokes, his round glasses as empty as the eye sockets in a skull, his right arm raised defensively—bony fingers splayed—as if trying to ward off the evil of his time.

  “A war pope?” guessed Lourdusamy.

  Pope Urban XVI wearily shook his head. There was a welt on his forehead where the heavy orphreyed mitre had rested during the long investiture ceremony. “It is not his reign during the Old Earth world war which interests us,” said the Holy Father, “but the complex dealings he was compelled to carry out with the very heart of darkness in order to preserve the Church and the Vatican.”

  Lourdusamy nodded slowly. “The Nazis and the Fascists,” he murmured. “Of course.” The parallel with the Core was not without merit.

  The Pope’s servants had set out tea on the single table and the Secretary of State now acted as personal servant to His Holiness, pouring the tea into a fragile china cup and carrying it to the other man. Pope Urban XVI nodded wearily in gratitude and sipped the steaming liquid. Lourdusamy returned to his place in the middle of the room near the ancient hanging garments and looked critically at his pontiff.

  His heart has been bothering him again. Will we have to go through another resurrection and election conclave soon? “Did you notice who was chosen as the representative Knight?” asked the Pope, his voice stronger now. He looked up with intense, sad eyes.

  Caught off balance, Lourdusamy had to think for a second. “Oh, yes… the former Mercantilus CEO. Isozaki. He will be the Knight in titular leadership of the Cassiopeia 4614 Crusade.”

  “Making amends.” His Holiness smiled.

  Lourdusamy rubbed his jowls. “It may be more serious penance than M. Isozaki had counted on, Your Holiness.”

  The Pope looked up. “Serious losses forcast?”

  “About forty percent casualties,” rumbled Lourdusamy. “Half of those irretrievable for resurrection. The fighting in that sector has been very, very heavy.”

  “And elsewhere?” said the Pontiff.

  Lourdusamy sighed. “The unrest has spread to about sixty Pax worlds, Your Holiness. About three million suffer the Contagion and have rejected the cruciform. There is fighting, but nothing the Pax authorities cannot handle. Renaissance Vector is the worst… about three quarters of a million infected, and it is spreading very quickly.”

  The Pope nodded wearily and sipped his tea.

  “Tell us something positive, Simon Augustino.”

  “The messenger drone translated from T’ien Shan System just before the ceremony,” said the Cardinal. “We decrypted the holo message from Cardinal Mustafa immediately.”

  The Pope held his cup and saucer and waited.

  “They have encountered the Devil’s Child,” said Lourdusamy. “They met her at the Dalai Lama’s palace.”

  “And… “prompted His Holiness.

  “No action was taken because of the presence of the Shrike demon,” said Lourdusamy, glancing at notes on his wrist comlog diskey. “But identification is certain. The child named Aenea… she is in her twenties, standard, now of course… her bodyguard, Raul Endymion, whom we had arrested and lost on Mare Infinitus more than nine years ago… and the others.”

  The Pope touched his thin lips with his thin fingers.

  “And the Shrike?”

  “It appeared only when the girl was threatened by Albedo’s Noble Guard… officers,” said Cardinal Lourdusamy. “And then disappeared. There was no fighting.”

  “But Cardinal Mustafa failed to consummate the moment?” said the Pope.

  Lourdusamy nodded.

  “And you still think that Mustafa is the right person for the job?” murmured Pope Urban XVI.

  “Yes, Holy Father. Everything is going according to plan. We had hoped to make contact prior to the actual arrest.”

  “And the Raphael?” said the Pope.

  “No sign of it yet,” said the Secretary of State, “but Mustafa and Admiral Wu feel certain that de Soya will appear in T’ien Shan System before the allotted time to collect the girl.”

  “We certainly pray that this will be the case,” said the Pontiff. “Do you know, Simon Augustino, how much damage that renegade ship has done to our Crusade?”

  Lourdusamy knew that the question was rhetorical.

  He and the Holy Father and the squirming Pax Fleet admirals had pored over combat action reports, casualty lists, and tonnage losses for five years. The Raphael and its turncoat Captain de Soya had almost been captured or destroyed a score of times, but always had managed to escape to Ouster space, leaving behind scattered convoys, tumbling hulks, and shattered Pax warships. Pax Fleet’s failure to catch a single renegade archangel had become the shame of the Fleet and the best-kept secret in the Pax. And now it was going to end.

  “Albedo’s Elements calculate a ninety-four percent probability that de Soya will rise to our bait,” said the Cardinal.

  “It’s been how long since Pax Fleet and the Holy Office planted the information?” said the Pope, finishing his tea and carefully setting the cup and saucer on the edge of the settee.

  “Five weeks standard,” said Lourdusamy. “Wu arranged for it to be encrypted in the AI aboard one of the escort torchships that the Raphael jumped at the edge of Ophiuchi System. But not so heavily encrypted that the Ouster-enhanced systems aboard the Raphael could not decipher it.”

  “Won’t de Soya and his people scent a trap?” mused the man who had once been Father Lenar Hoyt.

  “Unlikely, Your Holiness,” said the Cardinal. “We’ve used that encryption pattern before to feed reliable information to de Soya and…”

  The Pope’s head snapped up. “Cardinal Lourdusamy,” he said sharply, “do you mean to tell us that you sacrificed innocent Pax ships and lives… lives beyond resurrection… merely to insure that the renegades will consider this informatio
n reliable?”

  “Yes, Holy Father,” said Lourdusamy.

  The Pope let out a breath and nodded. “Regrettable, but understandable… given the stakes involved.”

  “In addition,” continued the Cardinal, “certain officers aboard the crew of the ship positioned to be captured by the Raphael had been… ah… conditioned… by the Holy Office so that they also had the information on when we plan to move on the girl Aenea and the world of T’ien Shan.”

  “All this prepared months in advance?” said the Pope.

  “Yes, Your Holiness. It was an advantage given us by Councillor Albedo and the Core when they registered the activation of the T’ien Shan farcaster some months ago.”

  The Pontiff laid his hands flat on his robed thighs. His fingers were bluish. “And that escape has been denied the Devil’s Child?”

  “Absolutely,” said the Cardinal. “The Jibril slagged the entire mountain around the farcaster portal. The farcaster itself is all but impervious, Your Holiness, but at the moment it is buried under twenty meters of rock.”

  “And the Core is certain that this is the only farcaster on T’ien Shan?”

  “Absolutely certain, Holy Father.”

  “And the preparations for the confrontation with de Soya and his renegade archangel?”

  “Well, Admiral Wu should be here to discuss the tactical details, Your Holiness…”

  “We trust you to convey the general outline, Simon Augustino.”

  “Thank you, Holy Father. Pax Fleet has stationed fifty-eight planet-class archangel cruisers within the T’ien Shan System. These have been hidden for the past six standard weeks…”

  “Excuse us, Simon Augustino,” murmured the Pope. “But how does one hide fifty-eight archangel-class battlecruisers?”

  The Cardinal smiled thinly. “They have been powered down, floating in strategic positions within the inner-system asteroid belt and the system’s outer Kuiper Belt, Your Holiness. Completely undetectable. Ready to jump at a second’s notice.”

  “The Raphael will not escape this time?”

  “No, Your Holiness,” said Cardinal Lourdusamy. “The heads of eleven Pax Fleet commanders depend upon the success of this ambush.”

  “Leaving a fifth of our archangel fleet to float for weeks in this Outback system has seriously compromised the effectiveness of our Crusade against the Ousters, Cardinal Lourdusamy.”

  “Yes, Your Holiness.” The Cardinal set his own palms against his robe and was surprised to realize that his palms were damp. Besides the eleven Pax Fleet heads riding on the success of this mission, Lourdusamy knew that his own future hung in the balance.

  “It will be worth it when we destroy this rebel,” murmured the Pope.

  Lourdusamy took a breath. “We presume that the ship and Captain de Soya will be destroyed, not taken captive,” said His Holiness.

  “Yes, Holy Father. Standing orders are to slag the ship to atoms.”

  “But we will not harm the child?”

  “No, Holy Father. All precautions have been taken to assure that the contagion vector named Aenea will be taken alive.”

  “That is very important, Simon Augustino,” muttered the Pope. He seemed to be whispering to himself. They had gone over these details a hundred times. “We must have the girl alive. The others with her… they are expendable… but the girl must be captured. Tell us again the procedure.”

  Cardinal Lourdusamy closed his eyes. “As soon as the Raphael is interdicted and destroyed, the Core ships will move into orbit around T’ien Shan and incapacitate the planet’s population.”

  “Deathbeam them,” murmured His Holiness.

  “Not… technically,” said the Cardinal. “As you know, the Core assures us that the results of this technique are reversible. It is more the induction of a permanent coma.”

  “Will the millions of bodies be transported this time, Simon Augustino?”

  “Not at first, Your Holiness. Our special teams will go planetside, find the girl, and remove her to an archangel convoy that shall bring her here to Pacem, where she will be revived, isolated, interrogated, and…”

  “Executed,” sighed the Pope. “To show those millions of rebels on sixty worlds that their putative messiah is no more.”

  “Yes, Your Holiness.”

  “We look forward to speaking to this person, Simon Augustino. The Devil’s Child or not.”

  “Yes, Your Holiness.”

  “And when will Captain de Soya take the bait and appear for his destruction, do you think?”

  Cardinal Lourdusamy looked at his comlog.

  “Within hours, Your Holiness. Within hours.”

  “Let us pray for a successful conclusion,” whispered the Pope. “Let us pray for the salvation of our Church and our race.”

  Both men bowed their heads in the Room of Tears.

  In the days immediately following our return from the Dalai Lama’s Potala palace, I get the first hints of the full scope of Aenea’s plans and power.

  I am amazed at the reception upon our return. Rachel and Theo weep as they hug Aenea. A. Bettik pounds me on the back with his remaining hand and hugs me with both arms. The usually laconic Jigme Norbu first hugs George Tsarong and then comes down the line of us pilgrims, hugging all of us, tears streaming down his thin face. The entire Temple has turned out to cheer and clap and weep. I realize then that many had not expected us—or at least Aenea—to return from the reception with the Pax. I realize then what a close thing it had been that we had returned.

  We set to work finishing the reconstruction of Hsuan-k’ung Ssu. I work with Lhomo, A. Bettik, and the high riggers on the last touches to the highest promenade, while Aenea, Rachel, and Theo supervise detail work throughout the compound. That evening, all I can think of is turning in early with my beloved, and from our hurried but passionate kisses during our few minutes alone on the high walk after the communal dinner, I guess that Aenea reciprocates the wish for immediate and intense intimacy. But it is one of her scheduled “discussion group” evenings—her last as it turns out—and more than a hundred people are there in the central gompa platform as darkness falls. Luckily, the monsoons have held off after the first foretaste of their gray rain, and the evening is lovely as the sun sets to the west of K’un Lun Ridge. Torches crackle along the main axis stairways and prayer pennants snap.

  I am amazed by some of those in attendance this night: the Tromo Trochi of Dhomu has returned from Potala in spite of his declared need to move west with his wares; the Dorje Phamo is there with all nine of her favorite priests; there are numerous famous guests from the palace reception—mostly younger people—and the youngest and most famous of all, trying to appear incognito in a plain red robe and hood, is the Dalai Lama himself, minus his Regent and Lord Chamberlain, accompanied only by his personal bodyguard and Chief Crier, Carl Linga William Eiheji.

  I stand at the back of the crowded room. For an hour or so, the discussion group is a discussion group, sometimes led but never dominated by Aenea.

  But slowly her questioning turns the conversation her way.

  I realize that she is a master of Tantric and Zen Buddhism, answering monks who have spent decades mastering those disciplines in koan and Dharma. To a monk who demands to know why they should not accept the Pax offer of immortality as a form of rebirth, she quotes Buddha as teaching that no individual is reborn, that all things are subject to annicca—the law of mutability—and she then elaborates on the doctrine of anatta, literally “no-self,” the Buddha’s denial that there is any such thing as a personal entity known as a soul.

  Responding to another query about death, Aenea quotes a Zen koan: “A monk said to Tozan, “A monk has died; where has he gone?” Tozan answered, ‘After the fire, a sprout of grass.’”

  “M. Aenea,” says Kuku Se, her bright face flushed, “does that mean mu?”

  Aenea has taught me that mu is an elegant Zen concept that might translate as—“Unask the question.” My friend smiles. She is sit
ting farthest from the door, in an open space near the opened wall of the room, and the stars are bright and visible above the Sacred Mountain of the North. The Oracle has not risen.

  “It means that to some extent,” she says softly. The room is silent to hear. “It also means that the monk is as dead as a doornail. He hasn’t gone anywhere—more importantly, he has gone nowhere. But life has also gone nowhere. It continues, in a different form. Hearts are sorrowed by the monk’s death, but life is not lessened. Nothing has been removed from the balance of life in the universe. Yet that whole universe—as reproduced in the monk’s mind and heart—has itself died. Seppo once said to Gensha, “Monk Shinso asked me where a certain dead monk had gone, and I told him it was like ice becoming water.” Gensha said, “That was all right, but I myself would not have answered like that.” “What would you have said?” asked Seppo. Gensha replied, ‘It’s like water returning to water.’”

  After a moment of silence, someone near the front of the room says, “Tell us about the Void Which Binds.”

  “Once upon a time,” begins Aenea as she always begins such things, “there was the Void. And the Void was beyond time. In a real sense, the Void was an orphan of time… an orphan of space.

  “But the Void was not of time, not of space, and certainly was not of God. Nor is the Void Which Binds God. In truth, the Void evolved long after time and space had staked out the limits to the universe, but unbound by time, untethered in space, the Void Which Binds has leaked backward and forward across the continuum to the Big Bang beginning and the Little Whimper end of things.”

  Aenea pauses here and lifts her hands to her temples in a motion I have not seen her use since she was a child. She does not look to be a child this night. Her eyes are tired but vital. There are wrinkles of fatigue or worry around those eyes. I love her eyes.

  “The Void Which Binds is a minded thing,” she says firmly. “It comes from minded things—many of whom were, in turn, created by minded things.

  “The Void Which Binds is stitched of quantum stuff, woven with Planck space, Planck time, lying under and around space-time like a quilt cover around and under cotton batting. The Void Which Binds is neither mystical nor metaphysical, it flows from and responds to the physical laws of the universe, but it is a product of that evolving universe. The Void is structured from thought and feeling. It is an artifact of the universe’s consciousness of itself. And not merely of human thought and feeling—the Void Which Binds is a composite of a hundred thousand sentient races across billions of years of time. It is the only constant in the evolution of the universe—the only common ground for races that will evolve, grow, flower, fade, and die millions of years and hundreds of millions of light-years apart from one another. And there is only one entrance key to the Void Which Binds…”