Shadows in the House With Twelve Rooms

by J. Price Higgins

  "That would be presumptuous on my part, Eminence. Our Lord may yet spare him. If not, I am confident that the leaders of our Holy Church will determine who is most worthy to carry the blessed name of Holiness, who is fully prepared to take our Church into the future. Should I be among those considered I would, of course, bow to that decision. To do otherwise would be disrespectful to those wise in the needs of our Church, but toss my name into the election ring like a common bureaucrat?" He stared straight into the eyes of the screen image. "That I will not do."

  "I . . . understand."

  "Thank you for your help, Vittorio." Munoz flipped the screen off and turned his attention back to the task of translating.

  Fall blustered into winter and winter gave way to another spring. Munoz completed his rendering of the volume from the rock vault and knew he held in his hands authority far beyond that found in frescoed halls or cups of gold or the river of fire.

  With the might of the Church, he could rule the world. With the power of the book, he could rule Eternity. Record by record, date by date, hour by hour, he had searched out the truth of it, had verified the promise. Men's souls did indeed move through time. With that knowledge came an understanding: if he so chose, the souls of men belonged to him. Forever.

  He so chose.

  Munoz brought his hands together, cupped as though to drink. He stared at the overlapped fingers, the lines, the fleshy hillocks. Would he ever tire of these hands? With ritual slowness, he raised the cupped hands to his mouth, tipped his head back, and swallowed. Hands lowered, he laughed softly. Just so would he drink the sweet waters of eternity. He knew the way to the well. He needed the bucket with which to dip.

  He returned to Vatican City, a plan already solidifying in his mind.

  Ailing Pope Ignacio slipped quietly into death. Raphael Cardinal Munoz, protesting his unworthiness, humbly accepted the crown appointment. To honor the man he admired, he considered adopting Paul David II as his papal name, but quickly changed his mind. That Pope defied tradition and made global changes. So, too, would this Pope. His own name would make history, not that of another. Oblivious to raised brows and muttered criticism, he announced his choice. White smoke puffed from the stovepipe of the Sistine Chapel; a new Pope reigned over the Church of Universals—Pope Raphael Munoz.

  Munoz read the news that flashed around the world: this time, the Cardinals selected a man in the prime of life as their Pope, a man strong and healthy and young at forty-three, a man with foresight and ideas, a man who would take the Church out of the past and into the future.

  More than the Church needed his leadership, Munoz thought. World governments could also benefit from his strong guidance, spiritually as well as physically. The Transnationals had overextended themselves both geographically and economically, thus allowing a bipolar world to once again develop. Paying little attention to the shift in economic power, the Eastern Bloc nations boldly pursued their military ambitions, sloughing off the threats of retaliation tendered by Arabic Triune diplomats even though the two governments shared a common border. Throughout the world, tax burdens increased, loyalties subtly changed, and the multitudes grew ever more restless.

  Among his own Universalists, discontent ran rampant. That would soon change. What the Generationists demanded and Pope Ignacio ignored, he would make an actuality. Munoz slapped the newspaper against his palm.

  Just as 276 Pontiffs before him had steered the church down paths they deemed righteous, so too would he. He was Pope now. His eyes glittered as he rocked heel-to-toe.

  His predecessor, not wishing to be drawn into a political firestorm, had refused The Triune's pleas for financial aid despite his advisors’ urgings to the contrary. He refused to intervene when the tentative plans for power grid placements produced an obvious inequity between nations, and he refused to travel without a phalanx of bodyguards to keep the common folk at bay. Poor judgment, those refusals, actions that fostered division, not unity. A strong leader must look beyond his personal sentiments if he would stay a leader.

  His thoughts raced. There was much to do before he could bring Church and World together into one global community, under one global authority, peace-loving and obedient. In due time, when it suited his purpose, the decisions made by a fear-crazed potentate would be reversed, but not just yet. Not until a netline was in place; one that reached into every hamlet, city, state, and country. "Only then can We bring divine revelation to the masses with speed and precision," he said aloud. "Humanity must be taught a new reality if it is to progress and a new reality requires time and planning if it is to succeed." He smiled to himself. First the Church, then the world, then forever.

  His heel-to-toe movement abruptly ceased. The Arabic Triune. So long as the schism between church and governors remained, neither he nor his diplomats could safely enter eastern lands. This will never do, he thought. Never do at all. Revelatory truth—and the acceptance of same—depends on belief, belief depends on source, source depends on tradition. "And tradition," he murmured, "depends on desert lands. We must heal the breach."

  He strode from the room and down the stairs calling out, "Falconi! Make preparations. As soon as these election festivities are completed, We make peace with the Arabic governors. The Triune lands shall have the honor of hosting Our first Papal tour, the Eastern Bloc Our second."

  Eight grueling, back-to-back missions later, an exhausted Munoz returned to the Vatican. He brought with him newly signed treaties and three tightly rolled scrolls brittle with age, a gift from the Triune governors. Desert hostilities were no more. Once in his office, he strode to his desk, picked up the phone and jabbed a finger against number pads. The time of theological preciousness has come to an end, he thought as he waited for Edouard Cardinal Peterson, his Minister of Education, to answer. Our present doctrines must be refined if We are to gather unto Us all nations and all peoples.

  Edouard would balk, of course. He was not a man who liked change, but he would eventually come around and that made him uniquely qualified for this new task. Edouard understood the Lay mentality and if the integration of new teachings into old was to be successful among the clergy, a delicate balance would have to be maintained for they, too, would not be rushed.

  The following morning, he turned his attention to the stack of requests and manifestos placed neatly on his desk. His mouth twitched as he studied first a power grid allocation request from the Transnationals, then an invitation extended by the United Americas to tour the Tartarus Foundation. Jockeying for political alignment had begun.

  Munoz drafted his reply: He would be happy to meet with the governors. He looked forward to the tour. Let's say three days hence, he wrote.

  He inquired into the health of the relocated Sisters of the Covenant Ark and was told that all had died but the old crone and she wasn't long for this world.

  In his papal quarters, located on the fourth floor of the Vatican, he stood in the center of the living room. Ice-laden raindrops pounded the windowpane. He felt a chill. Time, inexorable leveler of every man, was in command. He must return to San Francisco immediately; return to his limestone palace and its locked away secret; return to his final confrontation.

  His first private audience was upon him.

  Chapter 9

  Munoz

  The Regent Mother of The House of Silence bowed low and kissed the Fisherman's Ring on her Pope's right hand. Without sound, she ushered him down a dark corridor rank with ancient odors and opened the door to a windowless cell. From the high ceiling, one dim bulb dangled at the end of an electrical cord. The Regent Mother pointed to the narrow bed against the wall. She lowered her gaze, backed out, and pulled the door closed behind him.

  Next to the bed, a straight-backed chair stood in the shadows. Munoz dragged the chair away from the wall and into the weak circle of light. He carefully arranged his cloak of office so that the dove, the cross, and the papal crest gleamed in the faint light. His fingers caressed his coat of arms: the Tiara, the Keys, t
he golden rings rippling across a lake of blue.

  On the bed, the old woman lay with eyes closed, the last surviving member of the Sisters of the Covenant Ark. He watched the fragile rise and fall of her bony chest as her breath fluttered, paused, fluttered again.

  Century after century, the Sisters watched and waited and prayed and guarded, he thought, shaking his head with reluctant admiration. So small an Order, so unobtrusive. No wonder Cardinal Peterson, and all the Cardinals in charge of religious orders before him, had overlooked their society. Never once did they have to go through normal channels to recruit a new member into the Sisterhood; they chose their own replacements with such exact precision, the world never knew they existed.

  "But no more," he muttered softly to himself. "The web of mortality has caught them one by one like fish in the fisherman's net."

  He looked up to find her staring at the coat of arms. She jerked her eyes to his; fury glowed in their sunken depths.

  "You have come then." She choked. A thin, yellow liquid trickled from the corner of her mouth.

  "A cool glass of water, Guardian Mother, to cleanse the throat?"

  "I take nothing from you," she spat. "We knew the Truth and held the keys with faith. My Holy Father will remove this bitterness from my mouth." Seconds passed and her gaze never wavered.

  He shrugged his shoulders, lip twisting into a half smile as he stroked the rings of gold. "He shall gather the keys into His hand so that the world will know His authority. That is the correct translation, is it not, Guardian Mother?" Munoz did not wait for an answer. "It would seem your Holy Father has seen fit to put the keys to His mansion into my hands for a time, old one. Does it not follow I should also bring the cup of water?"

  Her breathing faltered, began to rattle. She stared into his eyes, searching. As he watched, a great shadow passed, blotting out the wrath. Compassion, muted by deep sorrow, flooded in.

  "May God show mercy while you walk in the house with twelve rooms," she rasped. "My Father, show mercy . . ." The thin chest fell. It did not rise again. Silence filled the room and still her gaze held his. At last, Munoz looked down. He wiped his hands across his knees then stood, turned his back to the old woman, and left the room.

  Outside, the cold December wind ruffled his hair, caused his cloak to whip and billow. He shivered. The garments of Pope were impressive, but not practical. He could hardly wait to don something less flashy, something that would allow him to move among the crowds virtually unrecognized. Drawing the cloak tight against his body, he slid into the back seat of the waiting limousine, grateful for the interior warmth. Thirty minutes later, the car came to a stop before the imposing entry of the bluff palace and Munoz stepped out. "That will be all, Father Paul. We will call if We have further need of your services."

  He watched the vehicle disappear down the drive. It felt good to be alone, an all-too-rare occurrence since his crown appointment. This was a problem he intended to rectify, starting right now. He had declined Ambassador Yago's offer to stay in one of the Tartarus guest cottages, but now he could see he had been too hasty in that decision. Staying at the island would not only afford several hours of much needed privacy, it would also give him a chance to quietly survey Tartarus assets before the Transnational entourage arrived tomorrow. Munoz looked at his watch. There was still time to call the Foundation's director and make the arrangements. Whistling, he entered the palace and headed for the nearest phone.

  "Is there anything else we can do to make your stay a pleasant one, Holiness?" Ellery handed him the key to the cottage and a small clip-on badge imprinted with the word GUEST.

  "Nothing at all, Doctor Jensen. You have been most kind on such short notice. I do appreciate your keeping my arrival between the two of us. I need some quiet time."

  She chuckled. "I can certainly relate to that, Holiness."

  "Oh, if I get hungry?"

  "Our full-service dining room opens in half an hour and serves until nine. If you prefer to eat in, just press the blue pad on the phone, place your order and give them your cottage number—number twelve. It's on your badge in case you forget." She opened the door. "Have a good evening." She pulled the door closed behind her.

  Munoz surveyed his surroundings: spacious rooms, soft lighting, tastefully furnished. An aura of serenity permeated the space, a quiet comfort. The cottage was obviously designed with stress relief in mind. Nice, he thought. Not at all what I expected to find at a research facility. Settling down on the recliner, he studied the small premises map Ellery had provided for several minutes. He then grabbed a sweater and stepped into the waning light. There were things he wanted to see.

  Two and a half hours later, he strolled into the nearly empty dining salon and seated himself at a table that allowed him to view other diners and yet remained somewhat private. He had finished his soup and was starting on his salad when she arrived—tall, self-assured, and oblivious to everyone except the chattering group seated in the far corner of the room. A current of electricity seemed to mark her passing as she threaded her way between the tables. Salad forgotten, he watched her with unabashed interest. He needed no introduction. He knew who she was.

  Although the Vatican files were thick with the Tartarus accomplishments of Ellery Jensen, it was the meteoric rise of this woman, Doctor Bianca Raborman, that intrigued him. In fact, it was more his curiosity about this new genetic star than any burning desire to tour Tartarus that had prompted him to meet with the Transnational leaders. The woman's achievements were innovative and daring, a strong departure from the Foundation's norm of long-term testing. She intended to be the best in her field, he could feel it. He chuckled softly to himself. Doctor Jensen must have her hands full with this newcomer. He knew from experience that be it male or female, such a drive would stop at nothing to succeed.

  She looked up, her eyes locked with his for just a moment, then settled on his mouth. Her lips parted ever so slightly.

  Having studied the file and paid close attention to attached photographs, he came prepared for Bianca's talent, for her exotic beauty, but the raw sexuality that surrounded her like a mantle of flames had totally eluded the camera lens. He was not prepared for that.

  It slammed against his body as her gaze enveloped him with lascivious intensity. His stomach lurched as blood rushed to his groin. She smiled faintly as if fully aware of what was happening to his body, and turned her attention back to her companions. He knew then that his celibacy was meaningless dross to be purged in the fires of his desire and her objectives, whatever those might be. He finished his meal without tasting a bite and heard nothing except the rich texture of her voice drifting across the room. When the waiter presented his bill, he scrawled down his cottage number and beat a hasty retreat. Never had a woman affected him this way and he wasn't sure he liked it. One thing he did know—he wanted her and he would have her. One way or another, he would have her.

  Back in the cottage, he tried to sleep to no avail. At 1:40 a.m., he climbed out of bed, yanked a pair of faded jeans out of the closet and pulled them on. A black sweatshirt with pull-up hood was next. Sneakers completed the ensemble. A walk in the night air would drive this madness from his mind and he knew just the place to go: the cliff ledge behind Laboratory One. Perhaps the sound of waves crashing onto rocks would bring him to his senses.

  Munoz stepped into the darkness and hurried across the compound toward the entry door that would take him into the labyrinthine corridors that twisted from building to building: the quickest, most direct route to the ledge according to the facility map. And this night, he needed the most direct route he could find.

  Chapter 10

  Bianca

  Bianca lifted her head from the microscope and rubbed a forefinger across her eyelids, scratching at the inside corners. Lifting her shoulders, she squeezed the muscles tight. At the count of ten, she relaxed, then squeezed again. Gradually the knots of tension released. She glanced at the overhead clock.

  My god! she thought. It's
one-thirty in the morning. No wonder my shoulders ache. She slipped off the laboratory stool, walked over to the wall calendar, and marked off the date.

  "Too fast," she muttered to herself. "The months are passing too fast." She gazed toward her left. "Except for you, my pet," she crooned. "They didn't pass quickly for you, did they?"

  Her gaze focused on the small, ape-like creature hunkered tight against the iron bars of a nearby cage, its massive arms wrapped tightly around its head as if to hide the changes taking place. She didn't need to see the elongated jaw, the slitted eyes, or the soft down on the tapered head to know they were there. The progressive transformation of the beast was a miracle of genetic engineering. Her miracle.

  Tears welled and threatened to overflow from the stinging pleasure of accomplishment. Wiping the moisture away with the back of her hand, she wondered how many times the creator of the BH Gene had made just such a swipe with his hand.

  How like Victor Dakota I am, Bianca thought. Sometimes, she felt as if their minds were one and the same. Like him, she had set aside all restrictions placed on research that strangled scientific advancement, had broken all the rules in pursuit of a dream, and in the not too distant future she, exactly like Victor Dakota, would present to the world another milestone of genetic engineering—a new species. One that was strong, intelligent, and devoted to its creator. Bianca Raborman would be the best of the best in spite of Ellery Jensen's misguided views of the role genetics should play in society. A smile flitted across her face. Who would have thought that of all the labs in this building, she would inherit the one space that had all the design features needed to accomplish her goal?

  Her first day had been hectic. Never had she walked so fast, so long. After touring the island, meeting each and every staff member along the way, it was a relief when Ellery finally shoved open a door and ushered her into a vacant laboratory. Grinning, the director had said, "I suspect you’ll want to make a few changes. I asked Charles Lakeland to meet us here just in case I’m correct in my assumption."