by Eric Thomson
Morane nodded. “We heard. But do I detect reluctance on your part?”
“Very perceptive of you, Jonas. Declaring Lyonesse the new motherhouse has huge psychological implications for the Brethren. It would mean admitting we’re the last of our Order, or at least our abbey is the last house still standing. We once numbered in the millions, with abbeys and priories on every human settled world, a fleet of starships, and much more.”
“Such as a star system governed by the Order under an imperial charter,” Reyes said, eyes on the horizon.
“Yes, that too,” Gwenneth admitted without a trace of hesitation. “Though we kept it quiet, for obvious reasons. What an emperor kindly disposed toward the Order can grant, one not so well disposed can take away.”
“I’m surprised the Ruggero dynasty let you keep running Lindisfarne.”
“Dendera didn’t have time to turn her venom on an unremarkable star system far from the imperial capital, and her predecessors were more cunning. They knew incurring our ill will would deprive them of a useful resource.”
Another prolonged rumble of thunder, this one still closer, rolled over them, and for the first time, they saw lightning connect the black clouds to an increasingly wild sea. A gust of wind slammed into the house, though they couldn’t feel its strength behind the solid walls. The surrounding trees, however, took the full brunt, and their branches danced with alarming vigor.
“Once word of the new pathogen gets out,” Gwenneth continued, eyes fixed on the rapidly nearing storm, “the Lindisfarne Brethren will increase their pressure. They will consider it a sign from the Almighty that Lyonesse was chosen as the Order’s ultimate sanctuary.”
“A tad dramatic, no?” Morane, who’d turned his chair around so he could watch the storm, glanced over his shoulder at Gwenneth.
“Some of my people live for drama, especially now that our existence is mercifully one of quiet contemplation and good works. The Almighty only knows where their teachers went wrong.”
Morane snorted.
“You mean friars like Loxias? I can’t begin to understand what he’s doing among the Brethren.”
“Funny you should mention Loxias.” Gwenneth’s gaze broke away from the horizon as a frown creased her forehead. “He’s the leader of the Lindisfarne Brethren and is responsible for the motherhouse-sized Void Orb.”
“I’m not surprised. The man always struck me as a blowhard. He should be a politician instead of a monastic.”
“Yet he’s an accomplished chief administrator. And now you understand why internal politics are draining my energy and patience.” Gwenneth drank the rest of her tea and set the cup down with care. “You know friars cannot occupy most of the senior positions within the Order, that sisters always lead abbeys, priories, and minor houses while friars take care of the Order’s worldly matters, right?”
“Sure.” Reyes nodded.
“I might head the Lyonesse Abbey, but senior friars under Loxias oversee its day-to-day operations. Lindisfarne’s governance was this principle writ large. The friars held the levers of worldly power over an entire star system. The most senior friar was the de facto equivalent of a colonial chief administrator, while the Abbess of Lindisfarne was more like an imperial governor with little actual power. Running Lindisfarne gave the most ambitious among our friars an outlet.”
“One which the Order no longer has,” Morane said in a thoughtful tone. “I think I can see the nub of your problem with restless friars.”
At that moment, the first curtain of rain lashed against the windows and glassed ceiling, and they could no longer see Vanquish Bay, let alone the Middle Sea. Furious thunder hammered the air outside while lightning danced as if the demons of hell were loose on Lyonesse.
“At this moment, I feel much like your house, my friends. Beset from every side by a storm and fearing the one brewing in my abbey.”
Morane gave her a searching look.
“Am I correct in assuming more than just Loxias and his merry band is bothering you?”
A smile tugged at Gwenneth’s lips.
“Could it be I finally know something you don’t?”
“You know more than I can ever imagine, Sister.”
She gave Reyes a knowing look.
“The republic’s leading statesman and yet so modest.”
The latter rolled her eyes. “You have no idea.”
“I am here, you know,” Morane protested half-heartedly even as another barrage of thunder drowned out any possibility of rational thought.
Though it was still mid-afternoon, night had fallen over Vanquish Bay, and the solarium felt like a transparent bunker assailed by the elements yet safe from them.
“Dawn Hunter didn’t send a landing party to Yotai’s surface for just any reason. Do you know who serves as her chaplain and counselor?” When Morane and Reyes shook their heads, Gwenneth said, “Sister Katarin, who you might recall was my companion when we first joined Vanquish during our mad rush for safety.”
“I remember her well,” Morane replied. “As does everyone who was with us.”
“What the government doesn’t yet know is that Katarin sensed a Void beacon when Dawn Hunter entered the Yotai system on her way home, one amplified by an extraordinarily powerful mind. Katarin tracked it to a wrecked starship that crashed on the Lena Spaceport tarmac. Yet it wasn’t a Void trained mind but a wild talent that somehow came into possession of a beacon. Extraordinarily, it turned out to be that rarest of all, a male.” Gwenneth related the story of Stearn Roget’s rescue as reported by Katarin, and how he ended up on Yotai in the first place.
“Katarin believes he might be as strong as Marta Norum and just as ignorant of his ability and destiny as Marta was when she first landed on Lyonesse. She’s not told him of his talent, preferring I decide whether the Order takes him on. Some minds cannot be tamed and will inevitably cause strife. But now he’s stuck in quarantine, where we can’t decide whether he’s a threat or a boon.”
“Who can make that determination?” Reyes asked.
“Only a few of us. Myself. Sister Marta. A few of the psychologist sisters. Katarin, but she would rather defer to my judgment.”
“Is he a danger to Dawn Hunter’s crew?”
A grimace briefly crossed Gwenneth’s face. “I don’t know. My Brethren can block his undisciplined mind, but that doesn’t mean he’s no threat to the unaware and untrained.”
“Aren’t Void Ship crews chosen specifically for mental resilience?”
Both Morane and Gwenneth nodded. The latter made a dubious face. “If Katarin is right, this man is in a class of his own, Emma. He should be in the abbey sooner rather than later.”
“Wait a minute.” Morane sat up as something Gwenneth said finally registered. “He’s not one of the Brethren, but he carried a Void beacon. How did that happen?”
The abbess opened her mouth to reply when a bolt of lightning briefly lit up Vanquish Bay before the ensuing thunder drowned out everything else.
Once the sound faded, she said, “He claims he found it in the ruins of the Kingstown Spaceport on Montego Colony, which is plausible since there was a priory in that star system. But the beacon’s identifying mark shows the Valamo Abbey made it on New Karelia, a dozen wormhole transits from Montego. Which begs the question, how did it get there? And what happened to the sister or friar who wore it? Katarin thinks Roget is lying but won’t pursue the issue until Dawn Hunter is home.”
“And what do you think?”
“Roget claims his ship was cruising for salvage to help the crew’s homeworld stave off collapse. There’s not much of a step between salvaging and piracy in these evil times.”
“You figure he took it from the neck of a Void sister?”
Gwenneth made a dubious face.
“Anything is possible, but based on Katarin’s report, until we can discipline his mind, we can’t separate truth from lies with any degree of assurance.”
A sardonic expression twisted Morane’
s features. “Maybe you should send him directly to the Windy Isles Priory upon arrival. Just in case.”
“Don’t think I’m not considering it. But let’s discuss more pleasant things. How is Michael these days?”
The smile of a proud father replaced Morane’s earlier, world-weary look.
“Within weeks of graduating basic along with his best buddy Konstantin DeCarde, Brigid’s budding Marine heir. By the end of the month, he’ll be posted in one of the ships for on-the-job training as a bosun’s mate. And Konstantin’s off to Ground Forces Battle School. If Michael’s still interested in a naval career after doing his three years as a rating, I’m sure he’ll pass the officer selection boards without problems.”
“The president’s son?” Gwenneth grinned. “I should hope not.”
Morane wagged his finger at her.
“I don’t believe in nepotism, as you well know. And I’ll no longer be president by the time he finishes his three years.”
The abbess waved away his remonstration.
“I merely meant the son of two people like you and Emma will have more than enough character and intellect for a commission in the Navy.”
He snorted, smiling. “Nice save.”
— 13 —
“Mister President! Please come in.” Lieutenant General Adrienne Barca, imitated by the other four guests, climbed to her feet when Morane entered the Chief of the Defense Staff’s private dining room. His close protection officer stopped before the threshold and stepped to one side. “We’re glad you could join our little biweekly get-together far from curious ears.”
“At ease, please, and good evening everyone.” He went around the table to shake hands with Barca, Brigid DeCarde, Rear Admiral Nate Sirak, Major General Devin Hamm, and Rear Admiral Atman Au before taking the single unoccupied chair. “Thank you for the invitation.”
“How is Emma?” DeCarde asked once she and the rest were seated.
“In fine fettle, as always. And you’ll be glad to know we hosted Sister Gwenneth last week when that big storm hit the coast. I broached the subject of the Lindisfarne Brethren.”
Morane reached for the wine bottle and served himself. Two white-jacketed mess employees entered moments later bearing trays with the first course. Once they were alone again, DeCarde and Barca looked at Morane expectantly.
“She brought the name Lindisfarne Brethren up,” he said after taking an appreciative bite of the smoked ham. “Our abbess is not a fan of Friar Loxias and his followers. And even though a motherhouse-sized Void Orb now graces her domain, she’d rather not take the ultimate step and admit hers is probably the last surviving abbey. At least not voluntarily.”
“Can they force her?” Nate Sirak asked.
Morane nodded.
“If two-thirds of the Brethren formally vote in favor. But historically, communities don’t go against the will of long-serving and highly respected abbesses.”
“Did you touch on the matter of governance?”
“We did. Gwenneth freely admitted her Order ruled the Lindisfarne system under an imperial grant dating back several centuries but considers it an anomaly in the Void’s history, one which any sovereign could easily have corrected by revoking the grant. She made it clear the Lyonesse Abbey would never interfere in the republic’s affairs.”
“While she’s the abbess, perhaps,” Devin Hamm said in a skeptical tone. “But how about her successors? Gwenneth is what — in her mid-eighties? How much longer will she lead the Order?”
“If she remains in good health, many more years. Although Gwenneth talks about the joys of becoming one of the Order’s elder sisters, living a life of teaching and contemplation without leadership responsibilities, I think she enjoys running the place too much.”
“Sounds like our republic’s second president, who would gleefully accept a third term if the constitution allowed it.” Mischief danced in DeCarde’s eyes.
“Hardly. Unlike Gwenneth, I’ll enjoy being an elder dispensing wisdom without the burden of presidential responsibilities.”
Light conversation accompanied the second and third courses, soup, and roasted chicken, but when the cheese plate and port wine took center stage, Barca steered them back to business.
“I received word from the researchers just before leaving HQ tonight. They cracked the barbarian pathogen’s genome, which means they can now work on an antiviral.”
The Lyonesse Navy had packed a remotely operated infectious disease research lab into a container and shipped it out in Dawn Trader three days earlier, along with a group of researchers who would run the lab from the safety of the ship.
Morane gave her a questioning look. “Barbarian pathogen? Is that what we’re calling it now?”
“Among us, yes. The scientists gave it a proper designation, but once the virus becomes public knowledge, our nickname or a variation thereof will stick. At this point, they’re fairly confident the pathogen isn’t of alien origin but was created in an imperial bioweapon facility.”
“Meaning there could be many virulent diseases now running rampant along the frontier and slowly making their way into the old empire via reiver incursions.”
Barca nodded. “A distinct possibility, sir. Thankfully, so far, the people in Dawn Hunter show no signs of carrying it. They’re tested by the ship’s medical staff every twenty-four hours.”
Morane accepted a glass of port and studied the cheeses on offer.
“How long will Dawn Hunter stay in quarantine?”
A grimace briefly crossed Barca’s face.
“If it were up to the bureaucrats in the Health Department, a year, no doubt. News that it’s a pathogen created in a bioweapon lab will only make things worse. They’ll believe Dendera’s regime created it as an ultimate means of retribution, with an almost one hundred percent fatality rate.”
“What do the scientists believe?”
“The same as us military folks. Creating a bioweapon that remains dormant for weeks inside a human body defeats the entire purpose while giving it a chance to spread beyond the intended target. They’re testing live samples in lab-grown human tissue now. We’ll know what the pathogen’s incubation time is soon enough. Until then, there’s no point discussing Dawn Hunter’s return home. And that,” she said, looking around the table, “was my news of the day. Who wants to go next? Brigid?”
DeCarde inclined her head. “Something interesting came to my attention via one of my colleagues a few days ago. The sisters in the Windy Isles Priory are doing more than just giving the exiles spiritual, medical, and psychological support. They cured three of the worst sociopaths condemned to the Windies for life, men we brought here in Tanith.”
Morane cocked a skeptical eyebrow at her.
“Did they now? Why am I finding out through you?”
“I’m sure it’ll be mentioned during the next cabinet meeting. The men are now postulants and will, in due course, become friars in the Order.”
Hamm scoffed. “And won’t the good sisters be surprised to find their throats slit when one of these miraculously healed friars backslides.”
“Gwenneth seems convinced enough she formally absolved the Correctional Service of responsibility should any of the three commit an offense while living in the priory.”
“Are the rest of the exiles for life lining up to become friars and sisters after miraculously finding the Almighty?” Sirak asked in a comical tone. “Talk about a get out of jail scheme.”
“They’re not getting off the Windies without a presidential pardon, which I won’t sign. That means they’ll remain at the Windy Isles Priory for the rest of their lives, ministering to the other prisoners.” Morane popped a morsel of blue cheese in his mouth and chased it down with ruby red port wine, the kind he enjoyed most. “How did they come up with a way of deprogramming sociopaths without lobotomizing them when medicine has been stumped for fifteen hundred years? Counseling doesn’t help develop empathy in uncaring individuals.”
“I don’t k
now, and neither does anyone else outside the Order. When questioned, Gwenneth invoked the patient-healer privilege. But she’s confident of the results. Didn’t she mention this experiment during one of her visits to Vanquish Bay, sir?”
“No, which is passing strange. We often engage in metaphysical discussions over a late-night dram of single malt, so you’d think the matter would have come up, considering they’ve probably been working on it for a long time.” He took another sip of port. “Why use those three hardened criminals who should have died on Parth long ago and not Lyonesse natives for the experiment, I wonder. If you’re developing a new procedure, wouldn’t it be easier if you experimented on less extreme cases?”
Since no one could answer his question, Barca nodded at Nate Sirak.
“Your turn.”
“At this rate, it seems likely our Void Ships won’t carry out salvage and reconnaissance missions beyond the Lyonesse Branch for years, if not decades, seeing as how the rest of the old empire has become a cesspool of pestilence. Besides, we’ll need more patrol vessels in case intruders bypass the wormhole network. As a result, I’m placing the Dawns on regular patrol duties, albeit with half the expeditionary crew strength since they’ll stick closer to home port. It means those who’ve been on post-cruise furlough the longest are being recalled a little early. Dawn Seeker and Dawn Runner will join 1st Squadron in two weeks. Dawn Mercy and Dawn Glory will join 2nd Squadron three weeks after that.”
Sirak paused for a taste of his port.
“Once Dawn Hunter is cleared from quarantine, and provided she presents no maintenance problems requiring time in dry dock, we’ll change the crew and send her out. She’ll join 3rd Squadron, which will guard both of Corbenic’s wormhole termini, in case of an enterprising barbarian skipping the Arietis wormhole via interstellar space. I’m keeping Dawn Trader in reserve once she finishes her duties as a deep space virus laboratory. That’ll give us five more armed FTL ships capable of discouraging intruders. So far, the reasons for the reassignment of the Void Ships aren’t public knowledge, but eventually, we’ll need a rationale so we can squash rumors. After twenty years of Void Ship cruises into the former empire, turning the Dawns into regular patrol vessels and halving their crews will make tongues wag.”