The Empire of Ruin

by Robert I. Katz

  “They’re a religious cult. They believe that the ghost worlds have created heaven.”

  Michael sat back. “Really?” he said. If so, it was an artificial heaven, one that gave the illusion of eternal life but it was only an illusion. Someday, far in the future, the sun would gutter out, the Universe would exhaust all of its energy and eternal, frozen darkness would descend. It might take trillions of years but none of this was forever, and it wasn’t heaven. It was pretty good, though, he thought, if you liked living in a simulation. If it was living.

  But Susan, what was left of her, looked pretty real. Not the Susan he remembered, but real. “I don’t want to be a datamorph,” he said.

  She gave him a knowing smile. “You’re still young, strangely enough. When there’s no alternative and nothing left, you might change your mind.”

  Maybe. He was tempted to say that he doubted it, but he truly didn’t know how he would feel, if the end of his days were near and that was his only choice. “How can I contact these Cognoscenti?”

  “There are very few of them. They have a chapel on the other side of the world. It seemed the least we could do for them, considering that they worship us.”

  “And arrange for all your supplies,” Michael said.

  “That, too.”

  “Will you give me an introduction?”

  She frowned down at her cup of chocolat, then gave a tiny shrug. “Sure.”

  Constructed of mortar and stone, the only remaining man-made structure on the surface of this world, the Chapel of the Cognoscenti rose almost one hundred meters above the sand. It reminded Michael of a Gothic cathedral. It had the same crenellated towers, the same arches, the same stained glass window above the nave. At first, it seemed deserted. Curly and Rosanna had stayed behind with the marines and most of the Illyrians, monitoring their contact, ready to provide rescue if needed. Michael, accompanied by Anson, Matthew, Marissa and Frankie, pushed the door open and walked down a central aisle surrounded by wooden benches darkened by time, leading to a raised altar and lectern. It was quiet.

  “Hello? May I help you?”

  A holograph of a man stood to Michael’s side, smiling—a priest, apparently. He wore a cassock with a hood and carried a curved wooden staff.

  “Perhaps,” Michael said. Anson glanced at the Priest, frowned and then continued to scan the building, looking for threats. Matthew, Marissa and Frankie stared at the Priest. “First of all,” Michael said, “is this the Church of the Cognoscenti?”

  “One of them, yes,” the holograph said. “We maintain establishments on many worlds.” The Priest gave them a benign smile. “Pilgrims used to come to us from all over the galaxy, but that was long ago. It’s been centuries since a real live human walked through this door. Has humanity finally seen the light?”

  “Probably not.” Michael sighed. Susan had given him an introduction, contained on a datachip. Apparently, they wouldn’t need it. “Can we sit down?”

  “Of course,” the Priest said. “Where are my manners? Please, follow me.” He led them to a small sitting room to the side of the nave. The chairs and one low table looked well used but in good condition. “Would any of you like some refreshments? Coffee? Roobios, perhaps? Tea? I’m afraid that I have nothing more organic to offer.”

  Matthew opened his mouth but before he could speak, Marissa jabbed him in the side with an elbow. Matthew shut his mouth and gave her an injured look. The Priest smiled. “Well, then, please ask your questions.”

  The illusion was excellent. The Priest’s form flickered slightly but if you weren’t looking closely, you might think he was real. “We have been told that the Cognoscenti worship the ghost worlds and their virtual inhabitants. Is this true?”

  The Priest winced and briefly looked offended. “No, not at all. This view of things is absurdly self-centered and simplistic. We do not worship the inhabitants of the virtual worlds, nor those worlds themselves. Like most religions, we try our best to carry out the will of the Lord and we worship only at the altar of the Divine.”

  “Oh,” Michael said. Well, that cleared things right up.

  Marissa cleared her throat. “Then what is your relationship to the ghost worlds?” she asked.

  The Priest frowned. “How much do you know of Christianity, and the early history of the Christian Church?”

  Marissa shrugged. They looked at each other in bewilderment. Finally, Michael said, “It was a religion. There have been thousands of them. The Christians believed that Christ was both the son of God and also God himself.” Michael frowned. “I’m not sure how that was supposed to work. There are still some Christians around, I’m not sure how many. There’s a bishop on Terra Nova. I think they have a Holy Father somewhere…and some practicing Jihadi Buddhists. A few others...” He shrugged. “Most of us pay them little attention.”

  “This is not surprising,” the Priest said. “Religion tends to flourish during times of trouble and turmoil. Famine, warfare, plagues…people are despairing and afraid. They look for aid beyond what their societies can provide them. They seek hope for a future that currently seems bleak. Religion tends to atrophy in times of plenty. This is, relatively speaking, such a time. The vast majority of mankind have few material worries.”

  That might change, Michael thought. He really hoped not, but it might. “Go on,” he said. “Please.”

  “The Roman Empire had collapsed. Do you know of the Roman Empire?”

  “We’ve heard of it,” Anson said.

  “They called the time after the fall of the Roman Empire the Dark Ages. A time of ignorance, famine, genocidal warfare and plagues. It lasted for more than a thousand years. The Catholic Church in Europe flourished during this time, reigning over Kings and Principalities. It gave legitimacy to the rulers and kept the ruled in their place. The Church was a universal institution that rigidly enforced obedience and brooked no dissent, and yet it was truly a time of misery, a Dark Age. The people were unhappy and dissatisfied. Their lives were brutal, bloody and short. They longed for the Rapture, the second coming of Christ, when all their sins would be redeemed and all of mankind would be transported bodily to Heaven.

  “It was generally thought that this would take place at the year one thousand. A thousand is a nice round number, you see. Surely God would not condemn his children to more than a thousand years of such misery. As the year approached, people went insane. They gave away all their possessions and wandered into the wilderness. They starved themselves, seeking visions of their God. Some members of the faithful doubted but they kept their doubts to themselves. And then the year came, and then it passed, and nothing happened. Christ did not descend to Earth, or if he did, none could see Him. Life did not improve. Things did not change. Slowly, the people came to their senses. Life as it had been resumed. Five hundred years later, a similar phenomenon took place. Fifteen hundred years was again, such a compelling number. Surely now, God would appear and usher his people into their eternal home.” The Priest gave them all a sad smile. “Again, God did not appear and mankind did not ascend to Heaven. Oh, well.”

  They looked at each other. “What is the point of this?” Frankie asked.

  “Don’t you see?” The Priest raised a brow. “No?” They just looked at him. “Apparently, you do not. So, let me go on.

  “By now, fifteen hundred years had passed. The Renaissance came, and the Enlightenment. Slowly, the lot of mankind began to improve, but the lessons of the past were not forgotten.

  “The Cognoscenti began as a renegade offshoot of the Catholic Church, like the Nestorians, the Illuminati and the Jesuit Reformation. They held to a doctrine that the Church elders found offensive, even blasphemous. It was a simple doctrine: God does not care. God created the Universe and everything within it. He created the planets, the stars and the galaxies. He created life and designed that life so that it would grow and change and develop sentience, and once He was satisfied with his creation, God withdrew from the Universe to allow His grand design to p
lay out. We believe that God will return only at the end of all things, when the stars have guttered to their end and eternal cold has descended. Only then, will the Rapture take place. Until then, we are on our own, fated to make our way as best we can.

  “We do not ‘worship’ the so-called ghost worlds, but we approve of them. They allow the spirits of all intelligent beings to endure, not necessarily forever, but hopefully to that time, far in the future, when God has been satisfied that His design is complete. What will happen then, we cannot know. It is folly to think that we can ever know the mind of God. But we can hope.”

  “Oh,” Michael said. A rather bleak philosophy, he thought. The ‘hope’ involved seemed rather forlorn.

  The Priest smiled. “So, then, what else can I tell you?”

  “The ghost worlds were assumed to be closed,” Anson said. “The Empire regards them as subversive to their interests and the ghost worlds themselves were thought to want nothing to do with the rest of humanity. You seem to be an exception.”

  The Priest nodded. “Despite their defenses, the ghost worlds cannot match the power of the Empire, if the Empire decided to destroy them, and if they could find them all. The ghost worlds limit contact as a matter of simple self-defense. They trust us because they know us.”

  “What is your relationship to the Adventurers’ Club?” Michael asked.

  “A club? That sounds rather trivial. I know nothing of such an organization,” the Priest said simply.

  Matthew and Marissa exchanged glances. Anson frowned. Frankie looked skeptical. “The Adventurers’ Club is a private organization,” Michael said. “Its members are almost all very wealthy. We delivered a cargo of raw materials to Alesandra at the request of Lord Benedict Devlin, a principal sponsor of the Adventurers’ Club. We were given to understand that such missions are only carried out by selected members of the club, who share in the profits of the voyage.”

  “Ah, that sheds a different light on things. I assume that you are a member of this so-called club?”

  “I am,” Michael said.

  “I would suspect that at least one other member is—or perhaps was—also a member of the Cognoscenti. As an organization, we have been in existence for more than three millennia. We have our methods of doing things. They’ve worked for a very long time. There seemed no reason to change.”

  “How would we get in touch with your organization on Reliance and Dancy?”

  The Priest frowned. “I don’t believe that we have a facility on either of those Worlds.”

  “Where do you have facilities?”

  “I’ll give you a list.”

  “Thank you,” Michael said. “That may help.”

  Chapter 24

  They took off two days later. Michael spent the two days with his sister’s ghost, reliving old times, reminiscing about his former life. “Remember Sherry Lonigan?” Susan said.

  Michael winced. “My first crush.”

  Susan laughed softly. “She asked about you now and then.”

  “Really? I thought she didn’t like me.”

  “Oh, she liked you just fine. You were too dumb to figure it out.”

  No surprise there, Michael thought. Huh. Sherry Lonigan had been a cute little redhead. He remembered that much. He sighed. “That was a long time ago. I can’t even remember her face.”

  “Yeah. Mom always hoped the two of you would get together. Sherry’s mother was her best friend.”

  The rest of the crew kept their distance, leaving them alone. Michael swirled a glass of red wine and then drained it. The bottle was almost empty. “Can that stuff affect you?” he asked.

  “Sort of. It’s an organic body but the metabolism has been ramped up. It would take a lot.”

  “Me, too,” he said.

  She raised her glass. “To old times,” she said.

  “To old times,” Michael said, “and to new.”

  She smiled wistfully. “Will I ever see you again, Michael?”

  “I hope so. I’ll try to come back, if I can.”

  “To stay? To join me in Neverland?”

  He thought about it. He had thought about it a lot, the past few days. “Probably not.”

  “No,” she said sadly, “probably not.” Then she smiled. “You may change your mind, though, a few hundred years from now when the grim reaper is closing in. A lot do.”

  He swirled his wine. “Maybe.”

  Their next stop was a planet beyond the borders of the Empire, named Gallilee-3. It was a barely civilized world, with only two spaceports, one on each of the two giant continents. “We’re supposed to contact a man named Jeremiah Phelps. He’s taking half of the Blue Ice. The remainder is to be returned with us to Dancy. Additional cargo will be supplied by Phelps.”

  “And where is this cargo supposed to go?” Anson asked.

  Michael hesitated. “That’s what worries me. I’m not sure.”

  Gallilee-3 turned out to be a depressing, degraded dump, hot, dirty and dry. Michael hated the place on sight. It was as if civilization had never been invented, or had been frozen somewhere around the First Century AD. The center of Jericho, the largest city, did have electricity and running water. A few miles away, people travelled by ox cart and camel. The buildings were constructed of mud brick. They had toilets that connected to a sewer system but the raw sewage emptied into the River Sis, already muddy and slow-moving, and floated away, untreated, stinking and foul. The streets were dirty, dusty and unpaved.

  They traveled together, in military style fatigues, carrying weapons: Michael, the crew, Henrik Anson and three of his marines. The streets were crowded with pedestrians dressed in dirty, white robes. None of the people were fat. Most appeared to be almost starving. All looked at them with narrowed, speculative eyes.

  Curly shivered. Gloriosa gave him a cold look. Gloriosa, strangely, seemed right at home here. Not happy, but almost comfortable…familiar. Rosanna reached out and gave Curly a reassuring pat on the rear. He smiled weakly. Matthew and Marissa stared at everything, fascinated.

  The planet lacked GPS but they had been given a map. “Left turn up ahead,” Michael said. They marched in formation, two marines to the front, one bringing up the rear. Nobody bothered them, which was wise.

  They turned left, walked down a narrow street, then turned right. They faced a dusty square lined with stalls selling fly-speckled fruit, meat that hopefully wasn’t too spoiled to be edible, trinkets of all sorts, knives, bows and antique looking energy rifles. Facing them stood a large, adobe building with two windows high up on the front and a small arched doorway in the center.

  “This seems to be the place,” Michael said, and knocked.

  A moment later, the door opened. A man stood in the doorway, silently peering at them. He was thin, with a neatly trimmed gray beard, wearing a colored robe somewhat cleaner and newer than most. His bald, tattooed head gleamed with some sort of oil. “I am Luciano Barrad,” Michael said. “We’re here to see Jeremiah Phelps.”

  The man nodded. “Please come in,” he said. “I am Ferran.”

  They walked down a short, narrow corridor (easily defended, Michael noted) into a courtyard. The courtyard contained a neatly laid out garden, full of flowering plants, and a central fountain spraying water into the air. A metal table surrounded by chairs stood in the shade of an orange tree. A man sat at the table, reading a book, with a glass of what appeared to be iced tea sitting next to him on the table. As they approached, he closed the book and gave them a questioning look.

  “Luciano Barrad, my Lord,” Ferran said.

  “Ah.” The man smiled. “I am Jeremiah Phelps. Please sit down.” Since there was only one other chair at the table, the invitation was presumably extended only to Michael. He sat and nodded at the others, who spread out around the courtyard and stood at parade rest. Ferran took up a position just behind and to the right of Phelps.

  “Your people are disciplined,” Phelps said. “That is good.”

  Michael nodded.


  “Tea?” Phelps asked. “Something more substantial?”

  “Perhaps a glass of water,” Michael said. “The day is hot.”

  Phelps flicked his eyes toward Ferran, who slid away.

  “So,” Phelps said. “Tell me why you are here.”

  “We have been given a cargo. Our instructions are to deliver it to you. We were told that you would have additional work for us.”

  Phelps pursed his lips and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. His eyes wandered from Michael’s face to the crew and back to Michael. “You need money,” he said.

  “This is true.”

  Ferran walked back into the courtyard, carrying a tray with a glass of ice water. He set the glass in front of Michael and resumed his position behind Phelps. Michael sipped and nodded his head. It was water—just water, not that he thought Phelps would betray him quite so soon, but you never knew.

  Phelps laughed softly. “I was not born rich,” he said. “On Gallilee, opportunities to achieve success are limited. I had to work for everything that I have. I was lucky in a way. I found an older man who was successful and had no sons, who was willing to be my mentor and my guide, but mostly, I succeeded because I was smarter than other young men my age, more disciplined, and I was willing to do whatever was necessary to achieve my goals.” He smiled sharply. “Including marrying my mentor’s daughter, though this was hardly a sacrifice, you understand, as she is more cunning than any snake.” He smiled happily.

  “Those who are born wealthy, they do not understand this. They do not understand the single-minded dedication—the ruthlessness—that success requires, if you are born, as I was, with nothing.” He laughed again. “I know of your history, Luciano Barrad. You come from an old wealthy family and now you have no money. What are you willing to do in order to be rich, once again?”

  Michael drew a long, deep breath and gave Jeremiah Phelps a tight smile. “Anything it takes,” he said.

  Phelps sat back in his chair. “Good. I was of course informed of your coming. You have an unusual ship, large, well-defended and very fast. Such a ship would be a valuable resource, allowing a merchant such as myself to obtain a significant advantage over my rivals.”