The Grand Design

by John Marco

  "It is God's will," said the bishop, trying to comfort Kye. "They are in His hands now. Death is a doorway. You know that, don't you? The righteous of Goth are with Him now."

  "Oh, no," moaned Kye. "How can children be righteous? How can I do such evil work? I am damned! Forever damned . . ."

  The Archbishop of Nar seethed. "Listen to me," he thundered. "God's work is not evil. It is a cleansing of this vile world. Goth stood with the devil Biagio. They flew the Black Flag, in defiance of the Lord. You are on the righteous side, Kye, make no mistake. We are ridding the world of cancer."

  Kye fought to calm himself, clearing his throat of phlegm. "I'm just a man," he said. "I'm not a priest, I'm not a God. I know nothing of Heaven. I can't be asked to do its work."

  "You listen to me," insisted Herrith. "God is more real than you or I, and He knows your heart, Kye of Nar. He knows if it's pure. You fear the damnation of Hell for doing His work, but you don't see the glory of what you're doing."

  "I see only slaughter," agreed Kye, "and dead faces in my dreams."

  "But what you see is only earth," pressed Herrith. "It is the nothingness of this existence. There is another life after this one, Kye. And those who do the work of the Lord exalt in their next lives; those who do not will suffer the endless fire. You will not go to Hell for destroying Goth's children. You will go to Heaven for saving them!"

  Kye was silent. He leaned his head back against the wall and stared up at the ceiling, and would not speak a word or utter the smallest sound. The sobs had left him. He was suddenly a shell, unmoving, and Herrith watched his silhouette mournfully, and all the colonel's dark regrets became his own.

  "It is in the holy book, my child," said Herrith softly. He heard his words and knew he was talking to himself. "Serve the Lord and be rewarded. We defy Him at our peril."

  "I do not defy Him," said Kye. "I question Him."

  This time Herrith was without an answer. He considered the soldier's words carefully, groping for a response, but of late he had questioned Heaven, too. Herrith had found solace in scripture, but only a little. Like Kye, he grieved. But God's word was plain. Biagio was a sodomite and sinner. He lay with men. And the Black Renaissance he prescribed spoke of the emperor as the highest power, a heresy the bishop had let thrive for too long.

  "It is unwise to question the Lord," said Herrith finally. "If you ignore the portents, Kye, you do so at your peril."

  Kye's voice was a whisper. "Is it so clear to you?" he asked. "If you had been at Goth, it would be different, I think. I have never seen anything so terrible, Holiness, and I have seen a great deal. Your Formula B cannot be of God. I swear, it must be of the devil."

  "It is the inspiration of faithful men that created the formula," said the bishop. "It can only be of God."

  "That's a lie," snapped Kye. "I know Bovadin made the formula first. The war labs only perfected it."

  "But God is perfection. And the formula does His work." Herrith put his face to the screen. "Oh, sweet Kye. I feel your agony. Do not think I am as heartless as that. I am God's servant on earth, after all. I care for children here in the cathedral, and I know it all seems impossible to you. But we are not always to question the will of our Father. The Black Renaissance is a terrible thing, and it runs through our land like a wound. We must burn it out of our flesh because there is no other way."

  "Children, Holiness," said Kye. "Without skin. Without eyes." He put his hands to his head. "And they won't stop screaming at me. They won't stop. Make them stop, Holiness. Take them away from me. . . ."

  Herrith knew that he could not. He had heard the same screams in his own head and no amount of prayer could silence them. They were relentless, these children of Goth. In death they were louder than in life.

  "They are like dark angels," said Herrith. "Ignore them and they will be powerless over you. Rebuke them, Kye. You do the work of God. You need not answer to these phantoms."

  Kye seemed to nod slightly. "Then I am absolved?" he asked.

  "There is nothing to absolve you of. Go with God, Colonel. Rejoice in the work you do. And look to Vorto for guidance. He will help you understand."

  Vorto was a butcher and Herrith knew it. But his name had a magical effect on the legionnaires who served with him. The general was legendary. And Kye, who was certainly less than a legend, admired Vorto. He could gain strength from him. Vorto could be an example to them all. "Do you understand what I have told you, my son?"

  "I think I do," rasped Kye. "And God help me, I will try."

  "God asks only your love," said the bishop. "Love him, and He will help you. You will see that. And you'll see also that what we're doing is not a lie but the greatest truth Nar has ever known. I promise you, Colonel. I swear it to Heaven."

  Kye rose unsteadily to his feet. He put his face to the screen and stared through it at Herrith. "You have a law about this place," he said. "I know you do. Everything I've said to you is secret, isn't it? My men must never know of this conversation. Nor General Vorto. That is so, yes?"

  "Yes," said Herrith. "That is so."

  "And you will never convey this talk to anyone, not by lips or by pen?"

  "Of course not," said Herrith, mildly annoyed.

  "Swear it, Your Holiness."

  "What?"

  "Swear that you will never speak of our conversation today with anyone. Swear it to Heaven right now."

  Herrith raised his hand to the screen and said, "As you have said, so do I swear."

  Satisfied, Kye turned and quit the chamber, leaving Herrith in the dimness. The archbishop closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall, and all the misery he had heard in Kye's voice came washing over him. A red, unstoppable torrent of blood, and he had been the one to unleash it. The war labs had perfected Formula B under his orders, and Vorto and Kye had launched it against Goth because he had told them to. He wondered bleakly if what he heard really was the voice of God, or just the subtle whispers of his own vengeful mind. He put a hand to his forehead, striving to drive away the evil thoughts.

  So many children. The duke's own daughters. The Duchess Kareena. How innocent were they? he wondered. He remembered Kareena's glowing face, how young she was and how she had pilgrimaged to Nar to see the great cathedral. He had spoken to her then, and her only confession was that she had waited too long to see God's house. She had knelt and kissed his ring and he had adored her, for she had perfect beauty, the kind of grace that comes from Heaven.

  And now he had murdered her.

  All of Goth was a wasteland; that's what Vorto had said. And the reports from people like Kye echoed that truth. The horrible formula loosed by the war labs had worked more perfectly than anyone had foreseen. But it seemed to Herrith that his general suffered none of the guilt of his underlings. Vorto had come back to Nar City wearing a smile. Now Herrith wept, and he could not erase that smile from his mind or the evil images portrayed by Kye. There was an orphanage not far from the cathedral, a place that Herrith had built himself and sustained with church monies. He adored children. But children became adults, didn't they? And didn't their parents sometimes poison them beyond repair? The Black Renaissance had been like that; an artful knife slipping through the ribs of God's people. Herrith had prayed mightily for its end, and all God had given him was Formula B. No peace, just this awful weapon. So it had been a sign. Bovadin himself had been unable to perfect the formula of his own creation. But the war labs had done it without him, and that was truly astonishing. That, Herrith had decided, was a miracle.

  How hard it was now to live with that deduction. Herrith buried his hands in his face. God was real, and sometimes he gave men burdens. But Herrith knew they were never more than the man could handle, so he focused his mind on Heaven and his Father, and cried out in silent desperation.

  Holy Father, help me. Help me bear this thing I do. I do it for you, Lord. You get the power and the glory. Forever and ever. I beg You, fortify me for this bloody work. Make me strong and wise. Turn my hand
to gentleness as soon as You are able.

  He crossed himself and fought down his sobs, and when he opened his eyes he was still alone in the confessional, and the world was deathly quiet. This happened to him sometimes now. Since stopping the drug, he lost control more often than seemly. The drug had checked his emotions, just as it had checked the progress of his aging. Without it, keeping himself together was a constant, tumultuous battle.

  "Biagio," he growled. That bastard was to blame for all of this. The golden count went on taking the drug and spitting in God's face. He claimed to love Nar but he was a lying sodomite, orchestrating the Empire's destruction from his island lair. Herrith trembled at the thought of his ageless foe. Biagio had always been Arkus' favorite. Together the two of them had made religion meaningless. They had used it as a tool of control but had never truly believed. And God had finally tired of them both. Arkus the immortal had died. Biagio the devil was banished. Herrith took a steadying breath, composing his fractured emotions.

  "Wise work to do," he reminded himself. He wiped his tearing eyes with his silk sleeve. "No time for nonsense. God is watching me, always. I can't fail Him. I--"

  "Your Holiness?"

  Herrith bit down on his lip. Todos? Frantically he wiped the remaining tears from his face and tried to look natural. Todos was right outside. The priest knocked lightly on the door.

  "Your Holiness? Are you in there?"

  "What is it?" Herrith snapped.

  "Your Holiness, please. I must speak to you urgently. Something's happened."

  Todos sounded suitably scared. Herrith cursed under his breath. "Heaven and Hell, Todos, I'm busy! What do you want?"

  "Please, Holiness. You have to come. It's the Fearless."

  It was like hearing that God had returned. "What?" sputtered Herrith, rising from his stool and pulling open the door. Todos seemed not to notice his master's appearance. "What did you just say?"

  "It's the Fearless, Holiness. In the harbor! And she's not alone. There are four other ships with her, very close. What should we do?"

  Herrith was stunned. What was Nicabar doing in the Black City? Was this an invasion? He had to tell Vorto, prepare the troops. Lord, it was unthinkable!

  "What's he doing?" Herrith asked.

  Todos shrugged nervously. "I don't know, Holiness. The ships just appeared. I came and got you as soon as I heard."

  "And there are five ships you say? That's all?"

  "I think so, yes. Holiness, I'm not sure. But we have to do something."

  Herrith grit his teeth. "We do indeed, Todos. We have to find out what that bloody bastard is doing here!"

  Admiral Danar Nicabar stood on the deck of his warship and watched the harbor as the little boat rowed toward him. Next to the Fearless, her four smaller sisters stood at anchor, their guns trained on the city. The Cathedral of the Martyrs, that tall and terrible structure, loomed high, its silvery-green steeple reflecting sunlight. Nicabar had ordered the flame cannons turned toward the cathedral. Even the long-range guns of the Fearless were too far away to reach the church, but the admiral had known that the threat of firing would get Herrith's attention. He had in his vest the letter from Biagio, waxed closed with the count's own seal. It had been a long and blessedly boring voyage from Crote, and Nicabar was pleased to see his home port again. Little had changed. The labs still choked up plumes of noxious smoke. Nar City's broad avenues had filled with curious onlookers, all pointing at the returning fleet. Noble men and ladies shouldered up to beggars on the docks to better see the Fearless. Vorto's legionnaires had gathered too, a whole garrison of them. Vorto himself was nowhere to be seen, an unexpected pleasantry. Nicabar had always despised the general.

  The dreadnoughts Notorious and Black City bobbed alongside the Fearless. Behind them in the harbor were two light cruisers, the Iron Duke, captained by Nicabar's long-time friend Dane, and a smaller warship, the quick sailing Relentless. Both cruisers slowly patrolled the harbor, ready for any unexpected surprises. Nicabar had no idea how close the Lissens might be to Nar City, and he didn't want to be caught unaware. Though the guns of the Fearless could outmatch any Lissen schooner, there were only two dreadnoughts.

  The little rowboat drew closer. Nicabar could see its passenger now. As requested, his sailors had brought back Father Todos, Herrith's aide. The admiral smiled, surprised that Herrith had agreed to the exchange. He didn't think the bishop trusted him so much, but it was the only logical exchange. Herrith wasn't about to step aboard the Fearless, and if they were to talk, Nicabar needed to feel safe. He knew Herrith and Todos were like brothers. The Holy Father would never willingly let anything happen to Todos. Nicabar breathed a sigh of relief. The mere sight of Todos told him there would be no tricks.

  "It's him," said the admiral confidently. Lieutenant Garii nodded. The lieutenant held a small metal box, plain and unadorned, barely the size of a man's hand. A gift for the Archbishop of Nar. "Have him come aboard, Garii," ordered Nicabar. "I want him to feel welcome. Give him whatever he needs--food, drink, anything. Understood?"

  "Aye, sir," said the lieutenant. The young man called out to the sailors in the rowboat to come alongside. A rope ladder was lowered amidships. The sailors in the rowboat waved and shouldered the little craft up to the warship. Father Todos looked at the hulking Fearless, his jaw set. Nicabar stared down at him, grinning. Todos was a decent man. He believed in his church and that made him an enemy, but in the days of Arkus they had almost been friends. The admiral had no desire to hurt this gentle man, and hoped Herrith had planned no betrayals. If he did and Nicabar was captured or killed, Todos would die.

  The sailors in the rowboat helped the priest shimmy up the rope ladder. Nicabar went to greet him. Halfway up, the Father noticed his host and stopped.

  "Come ahead, Father," boomed Nicabar. "Nothing will happen to you, not by my doing."

  Father Todos grimaced but continued up the ladder anyway. Admiral Nicabar extended out a hand, which the priest reluctantly accepted, and pulled him aboard. The sailors in the rowboat remained behind, waiting for the admiral. Father Todos cleared his throat nervously and stared at Nicabar, trying to look brave.

  "I'm here, as requested," said Todos. "God protect me."

  Nicabar chuckled. "You have my protection, priest," he said. "Nothing will happen to you, so long as nothing happens to me." He looked out over the docks to where Vorto's garrisons were pompously arranged. "Safe passage through those legionnaires, to the cathedral and back again. That's the deal, right?"

  "Yes," said Todos. "The archbishop will be waiting for you. Have your talk with him quickly. Take care of your devilish business and return to your ship. I won't leave until you come back."

  "I'd say not," laughed Nicabar. "It's a long swim." The admiral turned to Garii and took the metal box from him. Todos noticed it, eyeing the thing suspiciously.

  "What is that?" he asked.

  "A gift for your bishop," replied Nicabar. "From Count Biagio."

  Todos made a disgusted face. "He won't accept it. It's an insult. How dare that demon try to buy the bishop's pardon!"

  "There's food and wine aboard, Father. Lieutenant Garii will see to your needs. Be comfortable. I will return when I can."

  "What news do you bring the bishop, heretic?" asked Todos. "Has your twisted count come to his senses?"

  Nicabar bristled but tried to ignore the insult. He backed down onto the rope ladder, tucking the metal box under his armpit. "You'll know when you get back to the cathedral, Todos. Enjoy my ship's hospitality."

  "Admiral? "said Todos.

  Nicabar stopped and looked at the priest. "What?"

  Todos crossed the air in front of him. "Go with God."

  "Yes," said Nicabar dryly. "As you say." Then he dropped down below the railings and out of Todos' sight, lowering himself on the rope ladder until he reached the rowboat. The sailors on board fumbled to help him but he shook off their hands. They heaved away from the Fearless and sat down, taking up their oars and
rowing toward shore, but Nicabar remained standing, ever defiant as he faced the legionnaires gathered to greet him. He was resplendent in his perfect uniform of black and gold, and the ribbons and medals on his chest gleamed in the sunlight. In his vest pocket was the note to Herrith, while in his hands he held the little silver box, the gift Biagio had ordered him to present to the bishop. Nicabar smiled, wondering how Herrith would react to the present. It would be unexpected, certainly.

  Almost at shore, the rowboat skidded toward a dock lined thickly with waiting soldiers. The heavily armed men did not bow or show any deference to Nicabar as he stared at them. They merely waited, stone-faced, while their brothers behind them held back the curious push of spectators who had gathered to gape at the returning admiral. Danar Nicabar smirked at the crowd and the helmeted soldiers, but his cocky smile vanished when he noticed the carriage waiting for him. It was a large conveyance, one of the dead emperor's own, trimmed in jewels and pulled by four white stallions. And near the carriage, looking down from his great black warhorse, was General Vorto, battle axe strapped across his back. It had been nearly a year since Nicabar had seen the general, and Vorto's ugly features hadn't softened a bit. More huge than ever in his brawny armor, Vorto still seemed like one of Nar's statues--cold and sterile and completely immovable. The general trotted his charger toward the dock as the rowboat slid into a slip. Admiral Nicabar waited for his sailors to cleat the boat before he stepped onto the dock. Vorto was waiting for him, watching mischievously, but he did not dismount from his snorting beast.

  "Welcome home, Danar," boomed the general. There was a mocking quality to the voice. "It's so wonderful to see you again."

  "I would say the same, but I would be lying," said Nicabar. He didn't bow to the general or show any of the usual niceties. Not dismounting for him was clearly an insult, and Nicabar had no intention of showing the butcher any respect. "I've come bearing a message for His Holiness, Vorto. I have nothing to discuss with you."