Ezekiel slouched. Though he carried technology that gave him immense possibilities, he was unable to do anything of consequence. So far he’d failed to locate Commander Molric, let alone face him. Now he was unable to save even a dying fish.
Ezekiel stared after the cart, with a heavy heart. He could record and store information, but he had nowhere to send ... it ... to.
A flash of inspiration. Excitement coursed through his body.
Why not put something together, from his own records, then transmit that to Molric? It should be technically feasible.
Persuasion made better sense than confrontation. Ezekiel was just an astrophysicist, with a specialist knowledge of extra-solar planets. And a neonate clone, whose endocrine system was engineered to prevent sexual maturity. Physically underdeveloped, not even a full male, how could he expect to face an Imperium Commander and succeed? Molric was a grown man, a soldier, and an officer in the Imperium space navy. He would be physically strong, trained for violence, and have a mind for conflict and strategy. And he knew this world.
They need never meet. When Ezekiel found him, he could keep out of sight, and induct the relevant media into any Imperium device Molric used. That way, Molric could be shown the futility of his actions. And their potentially catastrophic consequences.
Yes, Molric might have seen something of the future destruction of this planet, that came with the return of its third moon. What he surely couldn’t know is that the gravitational interaction would eventually slingshot this planet out of its own star system, to join the countless wandering planets of interstellar space.
After tens of millions of years it would reach the Solar System and disrupt it. Mars would blister and crack under the stress of a near collision — powerful tidal forces would cause its core to burst out across the surface, to cool and weather to rust.
This planet would fare little better. But its violent encounters would send fragments of ice — crucially, containing genetic material — to distribute through space. Some would find purchase on Earth, and become assimilated by the microbial life there. Evolution would be accelerated, and result in the Cambrian Explosion.
That detail was vital.
There were seven known seed plans in the universe — different ways for complex life to develop. Only three allowed for sentient life to form. What had begun on Earth was not one. Left untouched, humans could never appear there.
That gift would come from this world — before it was condemned to a state of continual, fiery death. It’s magnetic core would rupture and be expelled through rampant volcanism; the oceans would boil away, and its atmosphere would become poisoned by the cataclysm. But by the time it became familiar as the planet Venus, it would have shared its seed plan with Earth.
The Imperium would fly to the stars, and die among them. But on Earth, the Great Matriarchs would send their minds beyond the galaxy.
Molric must be shown that his attempts to change the past were futile, and more likely to condemn the future, than save it.
He must be stopped.
Compiling a record should be easy, but finding the man still posed a problem.
Ezekiel stared back at the receding cart. He remembered that people had once caught fish by baiting hooks with smaller ones. If Ezekiel could not find Molric, then he could attempt to attract Molric to him — by becoming living bait.
Ezekiel could put his facilitator on full power to broadcast a simple mathematical pattern. Molric would surely detect it, and be drawn to it. It was a better plan that any he’d considered so far. He should hurry back to the Lion Inn, and put it into action. Then wait for Molric to come to him — and hope to survive the encounter. The future of humanity depended upon it.
A Prisoner of the Emperor’s Guard
Serannos
Two Emperor’s Guard supported Serannos between their shoulders, as they dragged him through a dark, stone passageway.
A lantern moved somewhere ahead. Boots clicked. A string of blood hung from his nose, and swung in rhythm to their step. It curled and snapped, and disappeared beneath him.
Every breath and movement brought a pain to his chest. He had endured beatings enough. Whatever they wanted to know, he would tell. They had not even asked him anything, just taken delight in his suffering.
Boots halted. A door creaked open.
They carried him into a small dungeon. Nervously, he tried to turn his head — to look for a brazier and hot pokers. He had seen the tools of Dinemetis. No, this was the Emperor’s Guard, and they were less cruel.
A number of cells surrounded, fronted only by rusted bars. Said once to have housed exotic animals, but little used since. Except now for him.
Iron hinges groaned. He was dumped on a pallet of musty straw. His head pounded with the thump, and his chest sharply protested.
A lock clicked shut. Footsteps and laughter receded.
He was left alone.
Serannos tried to lift his head, to view his surroundings. Every movement took immeasurable effort. He managed to drag himself upright. The exertion left him gasping, sweating, and holding his stomach against the pain.
He tried to catch his breath again. The air stank of confinement — rot, damp, and blood. There was a small lamp outside of his cell that barely illuminated any part of it.
Serannos cursed that he had ever become involved with this wretched scheme of Molric’s. He had suffered only humiliation for his troubles. When Lord Rodrigan freed him, Serannos would have his revenge on the Emperor’s Guard. The Cardinals’ Men would storm the citadel if they had to. Every pain, every ache, every bruise, would be avenged.
Thinking took effort. His body slumped. His thoughts drifted. When he closed and then opened his eyes, he was uncertain whether he had fallen asleep, despite the pains in his body.
A sly creak caught his attention. A handful of officers slipped into the room.
Serannos groaned as he imagined another beating.
These men were quiet. Too quiet. They crept. There was no chatter, buffoonish talk, or arrogant swagger.
A cold air swept up his back.
Two of them approached his cell. One wore a patch over an eye. After a moment, the cell creaked open.
These men stopped, and listened cautiously.
The one with the eye patch stood over him. “Hullo, Your Grace.”
Serannos blinked. He tried to focus on the face in the darkness. There was something vaguely familiar about it. Did he know someone who wore an eye patch?
The man drew his weapon. It was not a saber, but a heavier sword.
Serannos shivered — there was something very wrong at work here.
He was grasped by the neck and hauled up. Pain shrieked through his body. Serannos quivered and spat blood between gasps.
He knew that face. From where? Somewhere in the past?
The gallows.
The shock of the memory was more terrible than anything the guard could have hurt him with.
“Corraldo Silvano?” Serannos felt like his heart would burst. Here stood the man who had wreaked the vengeance of Wrenis, and murdered the last of the cardinals. If Corraldo still lived, then a momentous treachery had occurred. “I saw you hang ... ”
Corraldo smiled, as if glad for the recognition. His blade glimmered in the lamp light. “Goodbye, Your Grace.”
The Presentation
Erin
The day dragged as Erin waited on the bench. The decorated corridor was tall, cool, and empty. Sometimes, echoes from far away voices came to her, then were gone. She remained isolated from the world.
A young priest had already taken her books behind one of the doors, then left. That had been some while ago.
She no longer felt in turmoil — simply resigned to whatever decision was made for her.
A door creaked open. A voice called for her to enter.
Erin gulped, but her mouth felt dry. She walked through the doorway.
A priest with thick, gray hair, was seated at a table,
in the middle of a cell. He thumbed through Erin’s Book of Faith, and spoke without looking up, “Please, do take the stool opposite.”
Erin closed the door, and did as bid.
“My name is Father Haralder of Merciara.” He closed her book, and waited. He smiled slightly. “I do hope you have a voice, Erin of Pora. You are expected to speak during this presentation.”
“Yes ... yes, I do,” Erin replied, though her tone wavered. She attempted to smile. “I am Erin. Thank you, Father.”
“I have examined select passages in your books. They are not faithful transcriptions. Why?”
She felt her cheeks redden. “I addressed the mistakes of previous scribes.”
“You dared to change God’s words?”
“I merely corrected their spelling, to the monastery standard.”
“You had no authority to do so.”
Father Clement had warned against that. Erin lowered her gaze. “I do apologize if I have offended.”
“So you should. And look at me when I am speaking with you. Now, I am here to judge your suitability to join the Order of Omicron. Yet past wisdom suggests there no greater judge than oneself. Proceed.”
Erin was not sure how to reply. Was this a test? What was the correct answer? “I have been taught that to judge is to be arrogant, and not to let arrogance be my folly. How can I therefore begin?”
Father Haralder sighed and rubbed his brows. “I am to make an informed appraisal of you. How can I do that if you insist on clever retorts? It is not arrogant to describe yourself. Now do so. Praise all of your virtues, and reflect upon your faults. I know nothing about you. I want to.”
Now Erin was truly at a loss. What could she speak of? Other than of her failed belief? She bit her lip. “For a long time I have been concerned about ... the evils of humanity.”
Haralder nodded.
“One of the first lessons in our books is that we must take responsibility for our actions,” she continued. “But all too often we delegate that to God. In doing so, we excuse our failings. This cannot be acceptable. God’s Will should not merely be preached, it must also be practiced.”
“We are all human,” Father Haralder said. “Whatever virtues that entails, it also always carries with it our limitations, and failings.”
“I have traveled across the empire, and seen nothing of the charity and compassion we are taught to uphold.”
“Perhaps you looked in the wrong places?”
Her body sagged. She felt hopelessly unable to express herself. It was not simply that there was so much injustice in the world, it was that it stood condoned by authority. “The Order of Omicron has failed its own ideals.”
“Do you see yourself as a reformer?”
Erin sighed. “It seems I wish to change the mind of Man itself.”
Father Haralder smiled gently. “Then truly you are not a reformer, but a dreamer.”
“And is that not the foundation of faith? The dream of a better world? Yet how can we give the dream form when the Order cannot be faithful to God?” She remembered the shaking sickness upon the children of Pora. “No wonder God is deaf to our prayers.”
Father Haralder sat back and stared at her thoughtfully. “Some join the Order because a voice from within has told them to, and others because a voice from without has. Inevitably, the question of why appears.”
Erin’s thoughts raced. Did the priest agree with her sentiments? Or disagree? She could not remember what she had said. “Then ... do I have your blessing to become ordained?”
“Would you grant it?”
Erin hesitated. “I ... I do not know.”
“To join the Order of Omicron is a lifetime commitment to God. Those who join must be more than sure that this is exactly what they want. There must be no uncertainty.”
“But ... but I do want to join! It is what I have spent my entire life working toward. I ... I want to help others ... bring change. For the good of all.”
“Indeed, you may,” Father Haralder said. “But not yet. You are welcome to return for presentation next year. You may consider this one as over.”
Her chest tightened in panic. “Do I have your blessing to join?”
“No, Erin of Pora, you do not.”
The world went quiet. The silence dragged. Her cracked voice broke it, “Why?”
Father Haralder stood from his stool. “I do not think you are ready. You are conflicted, idealist, not yet ready to conform. This is my judgment and you will think upon it.”
Erin stared at the table. It seemed as though the world had stopped.
“You may leave.”
Erin dared not move. It was as if she, and everything around her, had become brittle enough to shatter at a breath. All her life had led to this moment. Somehow, it had all gone wrong. Her vision darkened, then filled with swirls of color.
“When I said to leave it was not a request. It was a command.”
A hot glow spread through her body. She became light-headed. The priest’s last words explained everything — why she had doubted for so long. Suddenly, it was all so clear.
Erin raised her eyes. “This morning, as I walked here, I was surrounded by Creation. Every sense revealed it around me. Then I stepped inside this building, and realized it had been shut out. You have made a void here ... a place empty of God. A place only to make a kingdom for yourselves.”
“We have made a vacuum only God could fill.”
“You have created a vacuum only you may fill, and built an Altar to Man for yourselves to worship at.” Erin was possessed by words that demanded she exorcise them. “For the Order is not the religion of God, but the religion of Man, and the cult of Self. Truly you have invented God in your own image. You have sealed yourself off from God, and revel in human vanities. You decorate your cold stones with gold and gems, yet what worth are these things to the Creator of the Universe? Material things are not gifts to God, but gifts to Man. You flaunt them, despite their lack of spiritual worth.” Her heart beat faster as she glanced around. “Not a natural thing sits within these walls. Who told you to keep out God’s hand? Your walls protect you from a world where the miraculous has become the mundane. No wonder you have forgotten your ideals. You have discarded compassion for selfishness. You have betrayed God.”
Father Haralder opened the door. “If you have you quite finished ... ”
Erin fought to breathe as her chest heaved. “The authority of man has triumphed over the authority of God.”
“You are upset for being rejected, that is all.”
“You do not understand anything I say, do you?” Erin remembered Jerine’s words. “You are not merely blind, but also deaf.”
Father Haralder raised his voice, “I understand that you are upset. But I cannot apologize for my decision. Though my judgment is not infallible, it is final. Now you will ... leave!”
Erin nodded. She understood the delusion of it all. She had seen the reality, but clung to the dream. She picked up her books and placed them in her bag. As she carried them to the door, she stopped before the priest. “I know why I am not accepted. It is because I wish for the Order to be my guide, when it insists on being my master.”
Father Haralder slammed the door closed after her.
The echo faded down the corridor.
Everything had felt so clear and obvious. Now it drifted away, like the memory of a dream. She retraced her steps, away through the corridor. Her legs faltered with the realization that she had failed.
A Message Revealed
Galadon
The marble balcony, outside of his office, provided Galadon with an unparalleled view across Corianth. A rough sea of rooftops filled his sight, broken by squares and streets, and sometimes an expanse of trees. The statues along the Avenue of the Emperors glinted in the sun. And beyond the distant city walls, fields and farms and hills rolled out toward the Inner Kingdoms.
There was a flotsam of noise. Every other breeze brought a commoner’s distant cry or sh
out. The wind was gentle today and there was no need to hold onto his hat.
Galadon raised his glass. A wonderful Delophian ’22 touched his lips, tingled his tongue and teased his palate with the fruity yet nutty flavor for which it was famous. He stood like a king above the world. He savored another sip of the gods.
Someone knocked at his door. He resigned himself to an audience. “Come!”
He hoped it might be a junior officer with cake. That was one of the few joys of his position. As he stepped back into the cool of his office, however, he was pleasantly surprised to see Commander Mollinos.
The man was old for his rank, a fact of his family’s merchant background, and his late entry into the guard. His hair was grayed to white, his cheeks ruggedly hollow, and he sported a fine moustache with twirls at the end, in the style of Marshal Vim. Commander Mollinos was a stalwart fellow, a man of good humor, and not prone to excitement. Though he took sword drills perhaps a little too seriously, he appreciated the finer things in life, almost with the spirit of a noble.
“Ah, commander, do please join me for a drink.” Galadon retrieved another glass from his cupboard.
“May I ask what you’re drinking?”
“A Delophian ’22.”
“A fine year indeed.” Commander Mollinos waited as Galadon filled his glass, then circled the wine under his nose and took a sip. “A firm fruity body, with a hint of nut. A fair maiden in any man’s hand.”
“Alas, there are too few of us who appreciate a special vintage.”
“Indeed, chief-general, indeed.” Mollinos took another sip, and stood back with his eyes closed. When he opened them his expression became serious. Which, alas, had been expected. “We’ll shortly be questioning Bishop Serannos. Is there anything you wish to ask of him?”
“I was rather hoping others would take care of that.”
Commander Mollinos placed his glass on the desk. “The longer we hold him, the more likely this will exacerbate tensions within the Order. High Priest Harrinian may lead the Order of Omicron, but he’s Rodrigan’s puppet. The arrest of the Bishop of Serrilinus undermines them both. This may cause a power struggle, and bring a less welcome faction to the fore. Father Dinemetis, for one, may take advantage to unloose his ambition.”
Gathering (Chronicles of Empire 1) Page 19