The Sacred Era: A Novel (Parallel Futures)

by Aramaki Yoshio

  “Neither have I. By special executive order of the Papal Court, all research material on Planet Bosch is classified.”

  “Classified?” K’s confusion is painted on his face. “What does that mean?”

  “It means that the release to the public of the content of this research is prohibited by law. All I can tell you is what I already know: some twenty years ago, a new planet was discovered. Then as soon as the Papal Court learned of this discovery, they immediately ordered that this research be classified top secret.”

  “Okay.” K lowers his voice. Now, even K’s suspicions have been aroused as well.

  Just what is going on here? Did I really pass the exam? Or was that not a reflection of my true abilities? Or is there some kind of secret plan behind all this?

  Perfectly timed to suspend K’s doubts from growing any further, the door right in front of him swings open, and the old man is summoned by name.

  2

  Not long after, Hoffman’s wine starts to take its effect on K. Unable to fight the overwhelming drowsiness taking hold of him, he falls into a deep slumber. How long does he sleep? Who knows? All K remembers is the servant—the same one who called in Abir—shaking him awake, breaking him out of his stupor.

  The servant in black robes instructs K to follow him. K does as he is told. But his mind is still half-asleep, still dreaming elsewhere.

  K dreamed that he was crouching with his knees in his hands in the middle of a mosaic-patterned floor. Still vivid in his mind is the feeling of standing on a faraway beach surrounded by strange plants he had never seen before. But other than details of these plants, their spherical leaves, there is little else from the dream that he can remember.

  No, there was something else. A woman. Who is she? Verdant leaves covered her from head to toe, as if she were some kind of child of the forest.

  K follows the servant down a long hallway, through a large gallery lined with rows of columns, then another long passageway. At the end of the tunnel, they find an elevator designed to look like a large birdcage. The elevator lets them off at the top floor, leading to another long walk through another long hallway.

  A copper-colored door stands before them.

  “We are here,” the servant says, his finger pointing toward the door.

  The servant does not wait for K’s response. Before K can say a word, he turns around and retraces his steps back through the long hallway, leaving behind only the distinct soft thuds of his footsteps.

  With some trepidation, K pushes open the door. The room is so small and cluttered that there is barely any place to stand. Wooden boxes filled with piles and piles of books and papers cover every inch of the floor. Behind a desk tucked into the far corner of the room sits a man wrapped in gray clerical garb poring over documents.

  “Please take a seat,” he says as soon as he notices K’s timid entrance into the room.

  There’s something almost familiar about his imposing demeanor. His old mentor, Hypocras? With a nervous glance, K follows the man’s instructions. No other words pass between them in what stretches into a long, uncomfortable silence. The man carries on with what he is doing, fingers flipping the pages of his documents back and forth, cold disinterest visible on his face. K stiffens in his seat. His eyes catch a brief glimpse of the cover page of the papers—it’s his personal file.

  Finally, the man is done. He turns his piercing look toward K.

  “I understand that you don’t know anything about your parents?” His voice chills the air between them. “No brothers or sisters?”

  “That’s right, sir.” K averts his eyes.

  “No communicable diseases? That is correct?”

  “That is correct.”

  “So you’re in good health then.” The man’s stare softens. “Good!”

  His eyes look over K’s body from head to toe, as if studying some unfamiliar species of animal.

  “I can’t say you’re a picture of a strapping young man though. But that shouldn’t be a problem. Your frail body is just more evidence that you’ve been living in accord with the commandments of the Papal Court.”

  Is he being sarcastic? K can’t be sure. Regardless, he doesn’t give off the impression of someone who has showed much diligence in his work as an officer of the Sacred Service.

  All K can do is wait for the next question.

  “Well, that’s all the time I have for you,” he manages to mutter while stifling a yawn behind gritted teeth. “Let’s get this over and done with.”

  That’s it? After all that waiting?

  “Uh, may I go now?” K asks with some hesitation.

  “Oh, yes, of course” is the man’s hurried response. “Here are your registration papers. Fill out these sections here and here. Once completed, please hand them over to your department on your first day. See, they’re all already signed for you.”

  K pores over the papers. The procedures outlined seem straightforward enough. Printed on the back of one sheet are the instructions for registering at each department. On another page is a note instructing all successful candidates to proceed to the monastery for training prior to their designated assignments.

  “Understood,” K says, relieved.

  “Good. This here is your Sacred Service identification.” He hands K a badge. “As you may already know, you are entitled to access any public facility upon display of this badge. Clara Hall, for example, is one such place, but there are many other places. Please keep your badge somewhere safe.”

  “Can I also use this at public cafeterias?” This is the one thing that matters the most to K.

  The man burst into laughter.

  “Don’t be silly! Of course you can. Eat at the staff cafeteria of the Papal Court, if you wish.”

  The man’s expression changes. Is there something he is forgetting to tell K?

  “Incidentally, did you know that you’re the youngest man ever to pass the Sacred Service Exam? I’m told your age was a matter of some deliberation at the meeting of the final selection committee. In the end, there were no objections to your selection. Your marks were simply too good. There was one thing though . . .”

  K looks at the man’s face. His eyes fix right on K.

  “How shall I put this? You see, members of the Sacred Service are entitled to, shall we say, certain privileges. There was some concern among the members of the selection committee that such things might not be appropriate for someone of your age. This is, after all, the first time someone so young has passed the exam.”

  What exactly is he blabbering about? K has no clue. He certainly makes it sound like a matter of some significance.

  “How do I explain this?”

  Of course, K has no basis to even begin to offer a response.

  “How should I know? I mean, this is the first I’m hearing of any such privileges.”

  “Is that so? Well, don’t worry about it then.”

  What was that look he gave K? Something between surprise and admiration, perhaps.

  “I’m sure you’ll figure out these privileges soon enough,” the man continues. “All in good time. Although it might be better if you didn’t. At least for now. Any other questions?”

  “I hope this isn’t impertinent, but are you an officer of the Sacred Service too?” K blurts out.

  “I am indeed,” the man says, standing up from his seat.

  “Well, the thing is, I’m wondering if you know about this Planet Bosch?”

  Just what was K getting himself into? It is imperative that he find out.

  “Planet Bosch? That’s where you’ll be going. Actually, I’m supposed to get new orders to travel there myself, too. So, you never know, we may very well meet again over there.”

  The man’s vague response provides no clarification for K.

  “Just what sort of planet is this Planet Bosch, anyway? I’ve never heard of it before.”

  A faint smile forms on the man’s face.

  “It’s a joyous place. You might ev
en call it Heaven. Or the promised land, maybe.”

  “The promised land? Meaning what, exactly?”

  “You’ll just have to see for yourself.”

  The man brushes aside K’s questions as he shuts the cabinet doors on the bookcases and locks them up.

  “All right,” he says. “That is all for today.”

  Together, the two exit the building. When they reach the rows upon rows of columns that line the path toward the main gates of City Hall, the man looks up toward the blue skies above.

  “Earth is just far too hot now. Hell is already here,” he mutters to himself. “Just another few years before our so-called Millennium of Prosperity all burns into a cinder. Hotter and hotter it goes. Nothing left to look forward to but a planet blanketed in hot desert sands. Total extinction. That’s humanity’s destiny. All right, take care then!”

  With this cryptic premonition, the man walks down the stairs out of City Hall, vanishing into the throngs of people still milling about in the city. No matter how many times K repeats his words in his mind, he does not come any closer to making any sense of them. All he can do is just stand there in front of the columns at the gates of City Hall.

  That is when K remembers his badge. A closer examination of the badge reveals a heavy silver medallion engraved with glyphs and the image of The Holy Igitur. Attached to the medallion is a chain he can use to hang the badge from his neck. K tries it on right then and there. His pride at passing the exam once again flows all through his body. K stands tall. A glint of light from the setting sun sparkles off the medallion as he struts down the stairs.

  3

  K rejoins the usual crowds on the city streets. His next destination is the Papal Court, located atop an isolated crag standing on the eastern side of the capital. The only way to reach it is to ride a cable car that bars all but those with Sacred Service authorization from boarding. But such restrictions no longer matter to K. There can be no questioning the power and privilege conferred by the silver medallion on his chest.

  The cable car squeals as its steel frame lifts above the ground to make its way skyward. K is in especially good spirits now. Nose pushed against the window, he watches the ground beneath him fall away. Curtains of dusk shroud the capital, forming a dark backdrop for the dazzling display of the city’s flickers of light.

  He has no words for the sense of freedom he now feels.

  Is this what it feels to come of age, to become a man?

  Yet, lingering in some hidden part of the back of his mind is still some trace of disbelief.

  How could this have all happened? There must be some mistake!

  Perhaps it’s only fair that such thoughts still preoccupy K. Thousands gathered, but only a few dozen bested the challenges of the Sacred Service Exam. It will take some time for K to understand.

  Solemn-looking sentries stand guard at the terminus of the cable car atop the rocky crag. K steps onto this sacred ground, displaying his medallion as he asks one of the sentries for directions to the cafeteria.

  “Show me your papers!” comes the sentry’s response.

  Does the sentry not expect to encounter such a callow young man?

  K produces his registration documents. He fails to conceal his pride upon presenting them to the sentry.

  “Thank you very much, sir.” The man’s tenor sees an immediate transformation. “Please accept my apologies.”

  The sentry offers to show K the way.

  The Papal Court complex is far less ostentatious than what K had once conjured up in his mind a long time ago. Only the solemn, pale-white marble structure of the papal residence in the center of the complex turns out to be as impressive as he had imagined. Looking skyward from the cobblestone courtyard, K’s eyes linger over white towers, which remind him of the shape of a woman’s bosom. Fully uniformed sentries of the Sacred Service stand guard before the staircase leading up to the entrance to the structure. K speaks with one of the guards after again flashing his medallion.

  “Which room is the pope’s personal chambers?” he asks.

  With a grave look, the guard points upwards at one corner of the building.

  “It’s on the top floor of the tower, third window counting from the corner.”

  The guard nods after K thanks him.

  As soon as K looks up, that window swings open, revealing a man in gray robes behind it.

  “Who is that?” K asks the guard. “Our new pope?”

  “Yes, I think.” The guard says, even as clouds of doubt and concern hang over his look.

  “You think?”

  “I can’t say for sure. It’s not like there’s been any official word about who His Eminence will be. But who else could be up there?”

  “Oh yes, of course.”

  Pope Job Kerim II passed away more than five years ago. So it’s certainly strange that no successor has been named as of yet. Is there no one qualified to succeed him? That can’t be the only reason for such an unprecedented event. At no time in history since the glorious founding of the Holy Empire of Igitur has there been any such delay in the papal succession.

  “I’m sure there are all sorts of rumors, but tell me, do you know the real reason why they still haven’t named a successor?”

  Another one of K’s ill-advised questions. Even before all of K’s words escape his lips, the sentry’s attitude turns portentous. His eyes dart up. It doesn’t look like there’s anyone listening in on them from the windows of the tower above this time around, but you can never be sure who might just overhear an ill-advised conversation.

  “You really should be careful about what you say around here.” His trembling words are all he leaves K before hurrying away from him.

  The warning startles K.

  Just what is going on here?

  K returns his eyes to the window above. Right on cue, beams of light from every lamp in the tower shoot out the windows.

  “Oh!” K exclaims.

  The flash of illumination reveals the face of the man in the tower. With such haste does he dart back inside the tower that he leaves K very little time to confirm his suspicions. But that single moment is all the time K needs to recognize him. There is no doubt in K’s mind at all. There is no mistaking his uncanny resemblance to someone K once knew.

  That’s impossible! How could it be?

  K cannot deny what he saw. It was none other than K’s old teacher Hypocras himself. He was the man at the window of the papal chamber. But explanations will have to come later. For now, K has other concerns.

  Already famished even before arriving at the Papal Court, once again K turns to his more immediate problem: his growing pangs of hunger. The sentry at the gate told K to cut across the courtyard and enter one of the buildings in the back, then go down a stairway leading to the basement. K does just that. Once inside, locating the cafeteria of the Papal Court simply becomes a matter of following the crowd of clerics to a fan-shaped chamber large enough to hold some three hundred people.

  K joins the queue. It does not take long for his turn to come. When he arrives at the front of the queue, he finds out that he is free to pick and choose whatever he wants from the selection of foodstuffs on display. He piles them up on his tray, taking far more than he can finish all by himself.

  A voice comes from behind K’s back.

  “Excuse me, chef, what’s this over here?”

  “That’s flying fish from Yilan,” answers the chef, who is also dressed in clerical garb.

  “Well, that’s different.” The man shrugs.

  The chef pries open the refrigerator door and takes a whole fish from inside it. He holds it out to the man with his bare hands.

  “This is what the fish looks like,” he says.

  Heat from the chef’s hands somehow revives the fish. It twitches and jerks around. Almost transparent in color, it appears to be close to the size of a salmon. But when its wings outstretch themselves, it must look twice as big.

  “I think I’ll pass. Just a y
east burger for me.”

  The chef does not say anything more. He simply hands the man a plate of more familiar food.

  K makes his way to an empty table in the corner of the room. The man is still in a heated conversation with the chef when K sits down.

  K does not notice when the man approaches his table in search of an empty seat.

  “Is this seat taken?” he asks.

  “Please, go ahead.”

  Seeing that both his hands are occupied with trays of food, K pulls out a chair for him.

  “Looks like the chef managed to convince me to try the dish.”

  Hardly any resemblance remains between the flying fish the chef showed earlier and the dish that has ended up on the man’s plate.

  The man takes a bite of some of the white flesh as soon as he peels it off the fish with a fork. He uses the utensil with the precision of a surgeon. Little by little, he takes apart the fish, breaking it down to distinct little bits and pieces.

  “This is really good,” he says. “I believe that this here is the lung of the flying fish. Interestingly enough, it’s a completely distinct evolutionary development from the respiratory system of land-dwelling creatures. Quite an achievement in the adaptation of function.”

  “Are you a specialist in . . . ?” K begins.

  “General Xenobiological Evolution.”

  The man cleans off his plate of flying fish. After wiping off the grease from his lips, he turns toward the chef.

  “The chef tells me he’s planning to add deep-fried worms to the menu,” he says. “What do you think about that?”

  K does not know what to say. Not that it matters, since the man continues to speak before K can attempt a response.

  “If you ask me, I don’t think it is a bad idea.”

  “Why is that?” K asks.

  And so began his pontificating spiel.

  “Why? It should be obvious to all by now. Don’t all of us citizens of the Holy Empire see the food crisis unfolding before our eyes? The only thing that can save us now is a revolution in food cultivation! Let me tell you something. Had humanity never discovered agriculture, the world’s population would have never grown beyond a mere three million people. And yet by the year 1960 of the Christian Era, over three billion people walked this Earth. What an amazing feat of progress, you’d say! But was it? Here’s the dirty little secret: technologies that increase Earth’s population carrying capacity can only continue a vicious cycle.”