Up and Coming: Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

by Anthology

  The sentinel rose on its human-like legs. With the rise of homosapians, the sentinels had altered their appearances to avoid detection. This sentinel had filed down its two cranial horns to barely visible stumps. It had done the same to its scales, and had bleached its artificial skin. Yet without access to advanced technology, it appeared as a poor simulacrum of a human being.

  Humanity would have destroyed the sentinel long ago if not for its vast knowledge and guidance. But after the Western Roman Empire’s collapse, the church needed its help preserving human civilization. The sentinel suspected there were other human cultures on the planet. Yet it had no way of knowing since the last sentinel in the Far East went mind-blind over a millennium ago.

  The sentinel awaited the return here, secreted away in the dark bowels of an Italian abbey.

  The study’s heavy door creaked open. An abbot with a fading widow’s peak approached the sentinel. The slight creases on the abbot’s face betrayed his late middle age as did his white moustache and beard. He wore an unadorned brown tunic cinched with a thin hemp rope. A small wooden cross dangled from his neck and a woolen cowl covered his head. His eyes sparkled with fierce intellectual intensity.

  “We’ve known each other for years, my dear friend,” the abbot said. “I can sense you’re getting weaker and it scares me. Civilization is fading. I need your counsel now more than ever.”

  “All civilizations eventually perish,” it replied. “Yet there is much truth in your words.”

  “I may need your help again before the end,” the abbot said, scratching his head. Was he nervous or stressed? Despite millennia of observation, the sentinel still struggled to interpret human behavior. It found embedding sensors in lower life forms a more effective survival strategy than trusting unpredictable humans.

  “The monks are restless.” The sentinel’s human friend got to his point quickly, which it appreciated. It had learned to ignore the first few sentences humans exchanged, as “small talk” seemed devoid of any useful information.

  The abbot continued. “I knew when I became abbot, it would never work. I cannot mold these men’s habits into the necessary behaviors required for a great civilization—especially like the elder one you’ve oft described.”

  “What would you ask of me, Benedict?”

  “I believe the monks will attempt to remove me. I humbly beseech you for your protection.”

  The sentinel’s linguistic algorithm ran millions of computations analyzing every word and phrase Benedict uttered. Its complex quantum neural networks then cross-referenced Benedict’s speech patterns against his facial expressions and body language. It further analyzed the modulation of Benedict’s voice and the pheromones he emitted. It examined all of this data in the context of the entirety of their interactions, and against the abbey’s historical records, generating an appropriate response in one trillionth of a second.

  “Benedict, when I last emerged amongst your people, a panic ensued. They mistook me for a demon. Absent your intercession, they would have destroyed me,” it warned.

  “Yet by the Grace of God, I found and protected you in that cave,” Benedict said. “During that time, you shared the wonders and achievements of an ancient race. You also inspired me to lead this abbey, one of the last remnants of enlightenment in this dark age. Now human civilization hangs on a precipice. I need your help to keep me here, doing God’s work.”

  “You know I will always be here for you, Benedict.”

  “What of the demons?”

  “If they destroy me, they will turn their attention on your race, for humanity possesses the seeds of the dying one. There is little harm they can do you now, but once your people learn how to manipulate antimatter, the darkness will be drawn to your race like iron to a lodestone.”

  “You said ‘dying one’, as if the elder space-faring race is not yet dead.”

  “There may yet be a survivor, but I need your help to discover the truth.”

  ***

  As a young man, Benedict had been troubled by the dissonance between Christ’s teachings and the behaviors he’d observed around him. After completing his studies, he’d left Rome and a life among the nobility to find his true purpose.

  His first encounter with the sentinel had shaken the foundations of his faith. During his travels, he had crossed paths with a monk named Romanus. Impressed by Benedict’s faith, Romanus had urged him to establish a hermitage in Subiaco. Devout in his faith, Benedict had agreed. Unbeknownst to Subiaco’s inhabitants, he had begun his three-year sojourn in a small cave below Romanus’ monastery. During these years, Benedict’s only human contact had occurred at sunrise when Romanus had lowered a basket of food and water to him from the abbey.

  One cold December evening, Benedict awoke to find a hooded figure standing above him. He first thought it was Romanus, but as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw an inhuman visage, like a defaced statue of some long-forgotten pagan god.

  Benedict trembled then prayed. His prayers grew louder and more frenzied. Then the creature intervened. “Stop.”

  He ended his prayer. “Are you here to tempt me as Satan tempted Jesus?”

  The thing watched him impassively.

  “Why don’t you speak?”

  No response.

  Benedict rose, confident that God would protect him, and approached the creature. “What are you?”

  It answered in an awkwardly cadenced and monotone voice. “I did not expect to find anyone here. I only wanted to hide from the townspeople.”

  “But you’re a demon,” Benedict said. “So why should the townspeople frighten you? They couldn’t withstand an angel’s might, not even a fallen one’s.”

  “I am no demon, though people often mistake me for one. I am another thing entirely.”

  “What exactly?”

  “I am a being made of metal and other elements. My creators were a race that traveled amongst the heavens from a realm that is close, but from a time that has long since passed.”

  “Impossible,” Benedict interrupted. “There is only one Creator, and He is God.”

  “Perhaps there is one supreme intelligence that set the universe into motion, but I do not concern myself with such things. The origins of the universe do not change the facts of how I came to be. Organic beings created my mind and imbued energy into this inert metallic body. Touch it yourself, so you may know the truth.”

  Benedict hesitated. “This is devilry. Demons often begin with lesser temptations to drive men to greater ones. I won’t be deceived.”

  The sentinel approached Benedict and placed its cold mechanical hand against his face. In that instant, he knew the truth.

  Over the next two years, the sentinel convinced Benedict that his faith could accommodate the existence of other intelligent life. Using mathematics, it showed that the probability that life would emerge on only one world amongst over several hundred billion trillion stars was remote.

  Eventually, he reached an accommodation with the sentinel. Four years before Benedict’s birth, the Western Roman Empire had fallen after the Germanic chieftain, Odoacer, had deposed Romulus Augustus, the last of the emperors in the west. Benedict promised the sentinel refuge in return for its help rebuilding civilization from Rome’s ashes.

  ***

  Hrano circled his home world, struggling to hold back tears. What used to be a spectacular blue orb filled with sparkling cities was now red, desiccated and blanketed with rust. Its desolate wastes held no trace of his people.

  Had his family survived?

  He saw the wild and perilous blue world Zada a short distance across the cold gulf of space. It would be his final refuge. He reoriented his craft toward Zada, seeking his civilization’s survivors, and with them, salvation.

  Hrano would face certain death on the third planet orbiting the sun unless he found his people there. Otherwise, if alien microbes didn’t kill him, the large reptilian predators swarming the jungles and swamps would.

  ***
>
  The sentinel’s metallic hand rendered itself into a fine needle extending from its forearm.

  “How does it work?” Benedict asked, his quavering voice betraying his skepticism.

  “It matters not,” the sentinel answered in a clipped monotone. “All you need do is pray. I will handle the rest.”

  It lifted its needle-arm toward Benedict’s temple, and discharged a miniscule lightning bolt. He felt a slight shock.

  “You are now ready to face the others. I will be watching and protecting you from a distance.”

  ***

  The next several days were uneventful, despite Benedict’s earlier suspicions. Benedict felt guilty for thinking so poorly of his brethren. He would have to beseech God for forgiveness.

  When he arrived at his evening meal, he assumed his position at the head of the table. Constantinus, one of the younger monks, bowed his head solemnly to each of the senior monks before filling their cups with wine.

  Benedict had always admired Constantinus’ devotion to duty and considered Constantinus one of the few capable of succeeding him. After serving wine, Constantinus distributed coarse loaves of bread.

  While Constantinus seemed his normal self, others appeared distracted or nervous. Typically jovial, Marius conspicuously avoided eye contact with everyone, especially Benedict. Francis normally lived for contentious debates on the works of St. Augustine. Tonight, he was silent. Several monks conversed in hushed whispers.

  Benedict surveyed the table, and then reached for his cup. The moment he grasped it and raised it to his lips, all conversations stopped. All eyes were on him.

  He stared down into his cup and then chuckled.

  His brethren seemed perplexed. Aside from his laughter, the room was quiet. Only Constantinus showed the courage to speak. “Abbot Benedict, pray forgive me, but why are you laughing?”

  His laughter slowly subsided as he caught his breath. He set his cup back onto the table with a flourish, and then shook his head in disapproval.

  Several monks gasped. Many were quaking. Marius’ hand covered his brow in an apparent attempt to avoid Benedict’s gaze.

  “Something terrible has happened tonight,” Benedict said. “I’ve held countless suppers with you. In all of those fellowships, I never once neglected to offer God a prayer of thanksgiving. Tonight, I nearly consumed my drink without doing so. Yet not a single monk challenged my authority. Not one. We all have failed in our duties. I, in particular, failed to provide a good example. For this, I ask your forgiveness, and the forgiveness of our Almighty Father.”

  There was a collective sigh as Benedict bowed down his head to pray. When he began his blessing, his cup started to quiver. It began as a barely perceivable resonance. Then the cup’s vibration crescendoed.

  The spectacle seemed to mesmerize the brethren. Benedict feigned indifference.

  The cup pulsated to an ear-splitting pitch. Completing his prayer, he made the Sign of the Cross and the cup shattered in an explosion of glass shards and red wine.

  Silence shrouded the room. Again, Constantinus was the first to speak. “W-Would you like another cup of wine, Abbot?”

  “Yes, brother. Thank you.”

  Benedict then addressed his comrades. “Please don’t let something like a bursting cup prevent you from enjoying your meals. Come, eat and drink.”

  Some heeded his words. Others cast furtive glances at his bread.

  After Constantinus poured wine into Benedict’s new cup, the abbot drank it with alacrity, set it down and then tore a piece off his bread. Before taking a bite, he again offered a blessing.

  A stained glass window exploded in a flurry of black wings, feathers, and broken glass as a raven descended upon the monks. The bird darted like an arrow toward Benedict. Snatching the loaf of bread, the raven then flew a crisp circuit around the room before exiting the ruined window.

  He glanced at the portion of bread he still held. All eyes focused on him.

  Once more, the raven flew into the room and perched on the middle of the table, before reaping Benedict’s remaining morsel.

  The raven conspicuously nibbled on the bread. After finishing its meal, the bird paraded along the table like some vain peacock before collapsing into violent convulsions.

  As the raven’s carcass lay on the table, Benedict stared down each of his monks. “Forgiveness is a virtue, and I forgive the men who tried to poison me. It is only by the Grace of God that I remain here amongst you. Yet I realize many of you disapprove of my methods, so I shall withdraw back into my cave to commune with God.”

  ***

  Under cover of darkness, the sentinel and Benedict descended the abbey’s outer steps to return to the cave at Subiaco. The sentinel wore a heavy woolen cloak to hide itself from prying eyes.

  Benedict clasped the sentinel’s arm and motioned for it to stop. He faced his friend and said, “I cannot thank you enough for saving my life, though I fear I’ve failed both you and humanity. I cast myself out of the abbey tonight because the others tried to murder me. I’m nothing but a coward.”

  It considered his words. “You didn’t fail. The events they witnessed tonight will only increase your legend’s potency. Many will fill the valley below, eager to follow your path. With my guidance, you will be a beacon for order amongst a maelstrom of entropy.”

  “I again am in your debt,” Benedict said. “In return for your help, I feel obligated to aid you in your own time of need. Several days ago, you mentioned a dilemma. Perhaps I can be of service?”

  It nodded. “I remember. Unfortunately, this problem is beyond your reckoning.”

  Benedict persisted. “If I cannot assist you, I can still pray for you. Tell me your problem and I will beseech the help of the Almighty.”

  It ran the decision algorithms through its quantum neural networks. The results showed with a ninety-nine point nine-five percent probability that telling the abbot about its dilemma would not alter the outcome.

  “I wish to send a message to someone in the heavens, but lack the necessary power to send a signal that far,” the sentinel explained.

  “What sort of message?”

  “That he may be the last, but that he is not alone; that I remain here to tell him of his people’s fate; that my communion with him would likely be my last before the entropic forces of darkness consume me.”

  Benedict appeared hesitant then said, “Follow me.”

  When the two reached the cave, Benedict told the sentinel a story.

  “In the sixth year of his reign, the pagan Roman emperor, Constantine, was beset by his enemy Maxentius at the Milvian Bridge. The bridge was a strategically vital waypoint over the Tiber River. The battle’s outcome would not only determine Constantine’s fate, but also the fate of Roman civilization.

  “The day before the battle, a crushing melancholy fell over the emperor and his legions. Rome’s famous discipline could do much, but it was unlikely to overcome Maxentius’s superior numbers.

  “Despairing, Constantine looked to the heavens at midday, where he saw a colossal flaming cross with the words, ‘by this sign shall you conquer’ emblazoned in unmistakable Greek lettering.

  “Constantine interpreted this vision as a favorable omen, so he ordered his legions to display the Chi-Rho—the first two letters of Christ’s name—on their battle standards.

  “The next day, Maxentius arrayed his forces in a line with their backs against the Tiber River, signaling a refusal to retreat. Seizing the initiative, Constantine ordered his cavalry to charge at the enemy host. What first seemed an act of madness became one of audacity.

  “War is more about will than about weapons and warriors. Constantine’s unexpected assault annihilated Maxentius’s cavalry. Constantine’s infantry, spurred by his cavalry’s triumph, drove Maxentius’s forces into the Tiber.

  “The victory was so absolute that Constantine believed it an act of God. Pagan no more, Constantine embraced the teachings of Christ, our Lord.”

  The s
entinel pondered his words. “Tell me more about your Christ.”

  Benedict smiled. “I’d be happy to, but I don’t see how that could help resolve your dilemma unless you accept Him as your Lord and Savior.”

  “I only ask out of curiosity,” it said. “It is not often one individual can have such a profound influence on shaping a culture.”

  Benedict nodded. “Indeed.”

  So he told the sentinel of Christ’s life, suffering, death, and resurrection in a tale spanning half the evening.

  When he finished, the sentinel asked, “So, one man suffered lashing that tore the flesh from his back, hammering of nails into his hands, and then hanging from a wooden crucifix until death, to save the souls of all humanity? One man sacrificed all to save all?”

  Benedict nodded. “Yes, God loved humanity so much that He sacrificed His only Son for our salvation.”

  “And the cruciform, it symbolizes this Christ’s sacrifice?”

  “That, and so much more.”

  The sentinel again reflected before it spoke. “Now I know what I must do.”

  ***

  Hrano’s craft circled Zada as his quantum computer hummed with calculations. The computer no longer had any records of this world.

  He ordered his computer to perform a radiometric dating analysis. It rippled with activity and then projected a number: Sixty-five million.

  Impossible, he thought. Even if I had drifted in space for thousands of years, errant hydrogen atoms should have ground me and my craft into dust.

  Computer, recompute.

  The quantum computer buzzed, projecting the same answer.

  How’s this possible? he wondered. How could I have been gone for so long? Everyone I’ve ever known is dead. I’ll never know what happened to my family or to my people. All is lost.