by Eric Thomson
“That would be my job.”
“As head of a regular abbey, yes. But you’re now the head of our entire Order. Our traditions do not give the Summus Abbatissa sole power over Order-wide policies, such as changes to the Rule, nor when charting a new path, let alone one which might deviate from centuries of precedent. The head of our Order on Lindisfarne always summoned a Council of Elders to help her deal with such matters. It is time we establish one as well.”
“The idea is finding a lot of support among the Brethren,” Keleos said. “They feel that since we’re the Order’s head abbey, we should align our ways with how it was on Lindisfarne.”
A mocking smile briefly danced on Gwenneth’s lips. “If we forge a fresh path, should we not leave centuries of precedent behind us, such as overly complex structures?”
“In some matters, yes.” Loxias nodded once. “But the changes we face in adapting to our new place in this fallen universe are momentous enough they demand the wisest among us work in unison. With all due respect, Gwenneth, you are but mortal, with a mortal’s limitations and failings. You alone cannot bring about that which will become necessary. Where one mind and one soul will not suffice, it behooves us to join in. Our predecessors recognized this long ago and created the first Council of Elders, which eventually propelled the Order to greater glory in the Almighty’s name.”
“And who would you suggest sit on this council, apart from the three of us?” Gwenneth ignored the flash of triumph in Loxias’ eyes as he sensed another win in the offing. “I imagine you think we should imitate Lindisfarne and appoint ten elders plus the Summus Abbatissa.”
“Precisely.” He rattled off eight names, all highly respected within the Order for their wisdom, experience, and profound knowledge. Gwenneth couldn’t fault any of the nominations, even if Lindisfarne Brethren were in the majority. It wasn’t unexpected that the eldest among her flock would show the most support for the Order’s hoary traditions.
“Let me guess, if I don’t create a Council of Elders, you two and the other eight will demand I convene the Brethren in the chapter house for a vote.”
“I don’t think it needs to go that far, Abbess. Someone with your humility knows the task you face in creating a renewed Order capable of seeding other worlds with abbeys and priories when the republic sallies forth. You also know this task is best tackled with plenty of help from the wisest among us.”
Butter wouldn’t melt in Loxias’ mouth, but she knew he’d outmaneuvered her. Besides, the constant internal politics took their toll. Let others share in the misery, even if it meant giving up power.
“Very well. I shall announce the creation of a Council of Elders at this week’s chapter. Should I assume the nominees already signified their acceptance?”
“They did.”
“Was there anything else?” Gwenneth contemplated her visitors with a detached expression as she sat back in her chair.
“No, Abbess. Thank you for listening. Under your continued leadership and backed by the wisdom of ten elders, the Order will no doubt grow in strength while it prepares for a return to the stars.”
As Loxias and Keleos stood, Gwenneth asked, “How was your lunch with Gerson Hecht and Severin Downes the other day? Did you discuss anything I should know about?”
“Productive, as usual,” he replied without missing a beat. “I think we will get preferential pricing offers when we issue this year’s request for proposals.”
Loxias was too smooth by half, Gwenneth reflected as Landry ushered them out. But at the moment, she couldn’t think why his dining with Hecht and Downes bothered her. She wouldn’t even know, if not for the Defense Force’s incredibly efficient intelligence service, which kept her informed on matters concerning the abbey at Morane’s behest.
Gwenneth swiveled her chair and stared out at the Void Orb. It increasingly struck her as something malevolent brooding at the abbey’s heart, despite the fact she’d never felt the slightest reservations about the one she’d seen daily inside the Yotai Abbey for many years.
Loxias had blindsided her with the Council of Elders suggestion, and she blamed herself for not realizing it would be his next move in a relentless campaign aimed at reducing her power over the Order’s affairs. She could claim tiredness, even existential fatigue, but in an organization that prided itself on respecting precedent, establishing a council of ten headed by the Summus Abbatissa, as Lindisfarne did long ago, was the next logical step.
**
Jonas Morane’s gaze fell on Brigid DeCarde once Health Secretary Wevers Rauseo finished informing the president and his cabinet colleagues there was still no progress in developing a vaccine against the Barbarian Virus.
“What about the analysis of the intruders destroyed by Standfast and her escort?”
“Our mobile lab confirms the people aboard were infected with the same strain, Mister President.”
“As we expected,” Rauseo said.
“The Navy also analyzed the wreckage to determine how those ships made it from what we assume was Arietis via interstellar space. Theoretically, they should not be able to carry enough antimatter fuel, since that type is optimized for wormhole travel, unlike Standfast and the rest of her class. But we found indications among the debris they increased the size of their antimatter containment units.”
“No good.” Vice President Charis Sandino lightly tapped the wooden tabletop with her clenched fist. “We should have known that would happen. It’s the easiest thing to modify on a starship.”
DeCarde nodded.
“Indeed. It also means they likely found an old imperial astrogation database somewhere if they identified not only Broceliande’s star but could make precise enough hyperspace jumps.”
“Then why not aim directly at us here?” Sandino asked. “If they found an imperial database, they can easily find our star.”
“Range. Whatever they did with their magnetic containment units gave them just enough fuel for Broceliande. They probably hoped it would take them around whatever was blocking the entrance into Corbenic.”
Sandino exhaled loudly.
“Which means someone will eventually figure out they need even larger fuel tanks and take aim directly at Lyonesse. They were smart enough to bypass Corbenic after a few attempts.”
“The odds they’ll die of the virus before that happens aren’t negligible.”
Morane nodded. “We can only hope. Will the Navy change its dispositions?”
“In a limited fashion, Mister President. We can’t keep permanent pickets on both wormhole termini in Broceliande and Corbenic while at the same time patrolling Lyonesse’s heliopause and hyperlimit. We have neither the hulls nor the crews. Our lightly armed sloops wouldn’t fare quite as well as the purpose-built naval units or the Dawns in a head-on fight with intruders, and we can’t afford to lose a single vessel. Prevail will join the fleet in a few weeks, but even with accelerating the corvette program and building a third dry dock, Repel and Repulse are still at least twelve months from commissioning. The next two ships won’t be ready for at least twenty-four to thirty-six months, and that’s with Hecht Aerospace working flat out. We desperately need an orbital facility to build frigates, yet even with the best will and enough funding, it’s still years away. The corvette program is taking up too many resources.”
“Then what’s the plan?”
“Use the traffic control buoys at both ends of the Corbenic-Broceliande wormhole as tripwires if intruders slip into our space behind Outer Picket’s back and post 2nd Squadron’s warships as an inner picket on the Broceliande side of the Lyonesse wormhole.”
A thoughtful expression crossed Morane’s face.
“So long as we keep enough warships in this system and our eyes on the heliopause, I suppose it’ll do.”
“The alternative would be pulling our units back, with a single picket on the Broceliande end of the Lyonesse wormhole and watch the rest of the branch via traffic control buoys. But in doing so, we effectivel
y surrender control of anything beyond Lyonesse itself.”
Sandino shrugged. “If intruders are bypassing the wormhole network anyhow, why not? There’s nothing of interest in the other two systems.”
“Until we run out of easily mined places around here,” the Natural Resources Secretary said. “Both Corbenic and Broceliande have ore-rich, albeit airless planets.”
“That won’t happen for centuries. By then, the Lyonesse Navy will be the strongest strike force in the known galaxy, one whose ships, more importantly, will have large antimatter containment units so they can bypass the entire wormhole network if necessary.”
A smile briefly lit up DeCarde’s face.
“Only if we build orbital facilities, Madame Vice President. And that’ll take a lot more material than half a dozen corvettes. But fair enough. However, picket duty is hard on crews, and each wormhole transit to rotate ships home for rest and recuperation takes a little more out of old hulls that the empire would have retired by now. The Navy is currently evaluating Myrtale’s fitness as a faster-than-light and wormhole ship.”
“What happens if she’s no longer considered capable?”
“Then Lyonesse gets its first crewed orbital installation in the form of a monitor.” When DeCarde saw Sandino didn’t understand the term, she added, “It’s what the Navy calls smallish but heavily armed ships whose primary role is orbital defense.”
“I see.”
“We’ll squeeze the last gram of life out of our warships until we replace each one by a comparable, newly built unit.”
“I know, but what I fear is that last gram of life evaporating before we launch replacements.”
“You and me both, Madame Vice President.”
— 30 —
Friar Stearn entered Marta’s training room and saw she was already there. He bowed at the waist, as a student does to his sensei. She returned it in the same manner but didn’t bow quite as deeply since she was, in every respect, his superior.
“I trust you are well this morning?” She gestured at the meditation mats in the center of a softly lit, window-less, wood-paneled space that was at once spare and warm. Stearn always thought it a most appropriate reflection of Marta’s character.
“I am.”
“And eager, no doubt.”
“That as well.”
In the week since he took vows, Marta had reviewed basic mental disciplines with him and tested his mind so she could evaluate the strength of his defenses. When he wasn’t with Marta, Stearn worked as a stationary engineer, maintaining the abbey’s environmental systems alongside gray-bearded, long-service friars with only a smidgen of talent. He was impatient to expand his sixth sense and become more. That was why he’d entered the Order in the first place, and today would mark the start of his next journey.
They adopted the lotus position, and for the next hour, Marta led him through the process of centering his soul and calming his mind, something he could do almost out of instinct by now. But Stearn knew better than to force anything with the abbey’s foremost teacher. She could detect impatience and draw out the meditation as a lesson in patience. Marta wasn’t much with words, like some sisters who’d taught him the basics, but she was uncannily aware and could convey volumes with a single glance or gesture.
Stearn blocked out any thoughts that might escape his shields and turned himself into a mental blank, as he’d done during every session since returning from the Windy Isles and resuming his apprenticeship under the Order’s leading mystic. After a while, the same strangeness he’d felt since telling Sister Mirjam about his breakthrough overcame him, as if ethereal fingertips were brushing against the wall protecting his inner core. It vanished as quickly as it appeared, and not for the first time, he suspected the sisters could do more than just sense the emotions of others in the way he sensed the chaotic thing inhabiting prisoners suffering from a personality disorder.
“You are strong.”
Marta’s voice almost jolted Stearn from his trance, but he remained centered and ignored it, proud of himself for both noticing and dismissing without effort. Then, after a few seconds, he realized her words hadn’t reach his brain via his ear canals, that she hadn’t made a sound. His eyes fluttered open before slamming shut again as he fought for mastery of his feelings.
Marta? Are you in my mind?
No answer. Was it the wrong question, or was he asking on the wrong frequency? Stearn centered his thoughts again and let himself drift, wondering whether he was hallucinating or whether this was yet another test. The rumors of Marta’s abilities seemed exaggerated, even as he learned under her tutelage.
The moment his internal clock told him the hour was up, Marta’s gentle voice shattered the absolute silence of a well-insulated room.
“I think you’re ready for the next step.” His eyes opened, and he found her studying him intently. “Tell me if something out of the ordinary happened during your meditation.”
“Partway through. It was as if feather-light fingers touched my mind. Was that you?”
She nodded. “Anything else?”
“Then you said, ‘you are strong,’ but it seemed as if you didn’t speak those words aloud.”
A mysterious smile tugged at her lips. “And?”
“I asked whether you were in my mind.”
“Three for three.”
Stearn returned her sphinx-like gaze with a questioning look.
“It happened? You touched my mind; you spoke to me without speaking, and you heard my question in return?”
“Yes. I belong to a tiny minority of humans whose sixth sense is almost fully evolved. Or as certain mystics would say, my third eye,” she tapped her forehead with an extended index finger, “in here, is open. There are a few of us among the sisters in this abbey and its dependencies, but not many. In most, the third eye is only partially open, though they can see more than others. We keep our true nature to ourselves and undergo rigorous training, so we don’t misuse the advantages it gives us. The Brethren know, of course, but not quite the extent of our talent. However, no one outside the Order is aware and that must stay so, lest people become wary, if not fearful of us. Distrust would not only impede our ability to serve as healers and teachers but might even endanger the Brethren at large. Bluntly put, we are the witches our distant ancestors burned at the stake.”
She paused for a reaction, but Stearn kept his expression perfectly neutral and waited respectfully for her to continue.
“You are that rarest human of all — a male whose third eye can open and open wide. I sensed it when you first arrived. The abbey’s records do not speak of any other like you in our entire history, though a man called Jackson Thorn founded the Order not long after our species first colonized worlds beyond Earth’s star system. Unfortunately, we don’t know whether his sixth sense was fully evolved or whether he only saw the diffuse light of something greater, like most friars.”
Stearn gave in to an impulse and asked with a sly grin, “If you sisters are the witches of yore, does this mean you’ll teach me how to use abracadabra in a non-ironic way?”
Marta gave him an exasperated look he suspected was mostly feigned.
“There is no way of using abracadabra or any other word of incantation in a non-ironic manner. Women with a partially or fully open third eye, though they didn’t know what the talent was, were deemed witches in those dismal days because they had abilities beyond anyone’s understanding. They didn’t actually perform magic because there is no such thing.”
“Too bad. I was hoping I might become a super friar, righting wrongs and making the universe a better place.”
She shook her head, eyes raised to the heavens.
“Speaking of irony. What we will do over the coming months and years, is build on the discipline you’ve developed so far to keep your mind hidden from others and the minds of others from intruding on yours. When I touched you during our meditation, I sensed the strength of the shell you’ve developed, one which is no
w an integral part of your being. You didn’t react, as some would, by lashing out against my mental touch, yet you heard my words clearly, which means you’ve instinctively developed the ability to separate directed signals from the general noise of random brain waves. Few can reach that point alone. I must normally teach my students how. Better yet, you projected a question at me, and I heard it, which means you also developed the ability to let directed signals out, another thing I normally teach sisters with a lesser talent than yours.”
He inclined his head in acknowledgment of her praise.
“The first thing I will teach you is touching another mind and interpreting the emotions you sense without leaving a trace of your passage. It’s a skill our healers possess. Those with the strongest talents specialize in treating people with mental issues.”
“Like Amelia, Mirjam and a few others in the Windies.”
“Yes, which is why they are spearheading the project aimed at treating Lyonesse’s most disturbed minds. The healers who specialize in physical ailments use this part of the talent to analyze a patient’s condition beyond what mere words or medical instruments can tell because of the close link between the mind and the body it inhabits. Healers must swear the Hippocratic Oath, with emphasis on clauses added by the Order. The first is I will not peer into another human being’s mind except in the course of my duties as a healer. The second is I will not use my knowledge of another’s mind for any purpose other than healing its owner.”
“What happens if a healer breaks her oath?”
“She can’t. Part of the training ensures healers would become physically ill if they tried, largely thanks to a prohibition imprinted on their minds. It means they can’t simply reach out and touch someone sitting across from them during a poker game to decide if they’re bluffing. But none would even try. Respect for the sanctity of others is a core tenet of the Order. But because of our training, we can pick up visual and auditory cues as well, cues humans don’t know they’re giving off, and draw surprisingly accurate conclusions from them. Healers can do most of their work without using the third eye. And the stronger one’s talent, the better one becomes at reading people without invading their privacy. Many of the long-serving friars are highly skilled, even though their talent is weaker than a sister’s.”