Endymion

9

Born again, seeing—literally—with the wondering eyes of a child, Father Captain Federico de Soya crosses the Piazza San Pietro between the elegant arcs of Bernini’s colonnade and approaches St. Peter’s Basilica. The day is beautiful with cold sunlight, pale-blue skies, and a chill in the air—Pacem’s single inhabitable continent is high, fifteen hundred meters above standard sea level, and the air is thin but absurdly rich in oxygen—and everything de Soya sees is bathed in rich afternoon light that creates an aura around the stately columns, around the heads of the hurrying people; light that bathes the marble statues in white and brings out the brilliance of the red robes of bishops and the blue, red, and orange stripes of the Swiss Guard troopers standing at parade rest; light that paints the tall obelisk in the center of the plaza, the fluted pilasters of the Basilica’s facade, and ignites into brilliance the great dome itself, rising more than a hundred meters above the level of the plaza. Pigeons take wing and catch this rich, horizontal light as they wheel above the plaza, their wings now white against the sky, now dark against the glowing dome of St. Peter’s. Throngs move by on either side, simple clerics in black cassocks with pink buttons, the bishops in white with red trimming, cardinals in blood-scarlet and deep magenta, citizens of the Vatican in their ink-black doublets, hose, and white ruffs, nuns in rustling habits and soaring white gull wings, male and female priests in simple black, Pax officers in dress uniforms of scarlet and black such as de Soya himself wears this day, and a scattering of lucky tourists or civilian guests—privileged to attend a papal Mass—dressed in their finest clothes, most in black, but all of a richness in cloth that makes even the blackest fiber gleam and shimmer in the light. The multitudes move toward the soaring Basilica of St. Peter’s, their conversation muted, their demeanor excited but somber. A papal Mass is a serious event.

With Father Captain de Soya this day—only four days after his fatal leave—taking from Task Force MAGI and one day after his resurrection—are Father Baggio, Captain Marget Wu, and Monsignor Lucas Oddi: Baggio, plump and pleasant, is de Soya’s resurrection chaplain; Wu, lean and silent, is aide-decamp to Pax Fleet Admiral Marusyn; and Oddi, eighty-seven standard years old but still healthy and alert, is the factotum and Undersecretary to the powerful Vatican Secretary of State, Simon Augustino Cardinal Lourdusamy. It is said that Cardinal Lourdusamy is the second most powerful human being in the Pax, the only member of the Roman Curia to have the ear of His Holiness, and a person of frightening brilliance. The Cardinal’s power is reflected in the fact that he also acts as Prefect for the Sacra Congregatio pro Gentium Evangelizatione se de Propaganda Fide—the legendary Congregation for the Evangelization of Peoples, or De Propaganda Fide.

To Father Captain de Soya, the presence of these two powerful people is no more surprising or astounding than the sunlight on the facade above him as the four climb the broad steps to the Basilica. The crowd, already quiet, stills to silence as they file through into the vast space, walk past more Swiss Guards in both ornamental and battle dress, and move into the nave. Here even the silence echoes, and de Soya is moved to tears at the beauty of the great space and of the timeless works of art they pass on the way to the pews: Michelangelo’s Pietà visible in the first chapel to the right; Arnolfo di Cambrio’s ancient bronze of St. Peter, its right foot polished to the point of being worn away by centuries of kisses, and—lit brilliantly from beneath—the striking figure of Giuliana Falconieri Santa Vergine, sculpted by Pietro Campi in the sixteenth century, more than fifteen hundred years earlier.

Father Captain de Soya is weeping openly by the time he crosses himself with holy water and follows Father Baggio into their reserved pew. The three male priests and the female Pax officer kneel in prayer as the last scuffling and coughing dies in the vast space. The Basilica is in near darkness now, with only pinpoint halogen spots illuminating the art and architectural treasures glowing like gold. Through his tears de Soya looks at the fluted pilasters and the dark bronze baroque columns of Bernini’s Baldachino—the gilded and ornate canopy over the central altar where only the Pope can say Mass—and contemplates the wonder of the last twenty-four hours since his resurrection. There had been pain, yes, and confusion—as if he were recovering from a particularly disorienting blow to the head—and the pain was more general and terrible than any headache, as if every cell in his body remembered the indignity of death and even now rebelled against it—but there had been wonder as well. Wonder and awe at the smallest things: the taste of the broth Father Baggio had fed him, the first sight of Pacem’s pale-blue sky through the rectory windows, the overwhelming humanness of the faces he had seen that day, the voices he had heard. Father Captain de Soya, although a sensitive man, has not wept since he was a child of five or six standard years, but he weeps this day… weeps openly and unashamedly. Jesus Christ had given him the gift of life for the second time, the Lord God had shared the Sacrament of Resurrection with him—this faithful, honorable man from a poor family on a backwater world—and de Soya’s individual cells now seem to remember the sacrament of rebirth as well as the pain of death; he is suffused with joy.

The Mass begins in an explosion of glory-trumpet notes cutting through the expectant silence like golden blades, choral voices raised in triumphant song, ascending organ notes reverberating in the great space, and then a series of brilliant lights switching on to illuminate the Pope and his retinue as they emerge to celebrate Mass.

De Soya’s first impression is of how young the Holy Father is: Pope Julius XIV is, of course, a man in his early sixties, despite the fact that he has been Pope almost continuously for more than 250 years, his reign broken only by his own death and rebirth for eight coronations, first as Julius VI—following the eight-year reign of the antipope, Teilhard I—and again as Julius in each succeeding incarnation. As de Soya watches the Holy Father celebrate Mass, the Pax captain thinks of the story of Julius’s ascendancy—learned through both official Church history and the banned poem the Cantos, which every literate teenager reads at the risk of his soul, but reads nonetheless.

In both versions Pope Julius had been, prior to his first resurrection, a young man named Lenar Hoyt, who had come to the priesthood in the shadow of Paul Duré, a charismatic Jesuit archaeologist and theologian. Duré had been a proponent of St. Teilhard’s teachings that humankind had the potential to evolve toward the Godhead—indeed, according to Duré when he ascended to the Throne of St. Peter after the Fall, humans could evolve to the Godhead. It was precisely this heresy which Father Lenar Hoyt, after becoming Pope Julius VI, had worked to wipe out after his first resurrection.

Both accounts—Church history and the forbidden Cantos—agreed that it had been Father Duré, during his exile on the Outback world of Hyperion, who had discovered the symbiote called the cruciform. There the histories diverged beyond reconciliation. According to the poem, Duré had received the cruciform from the alien creature called the Shrike. According to the Church’s teachings, the Shrike—a representation of Satan if ever there was one—had nothing to do with the discovery of the cruciform, but had later tempted both Father Duré and Father Hoyt. The Church’s history reported that only Duré had succumbed to the creature’s treachery. The Cantos told, in their confused mix of pagan mythology and garbled history, of how Duré had crucified himself in the flame forests of Hyperion’s Pinion Plateau rather than return the cruciform to the Church. According to the pagan poet, Martin Silenus, this was to save the Church from reliance on a parasite in the place of faith. According to the Church history, which de Soya believed, Duré had crucified himself to end the pain the symbiote caused him and, in alliance with the Shrike demon, to prevent the Church—which Duré considered his enemy after having excommunicated him for falsifying archaeological records—from regaining its vitality through the discovery of the Sacrament of Resurrection.

According to both stories, Father Lenar Hoyt had traveled to Hyperion in search of his friend and former mentor. According to the blasphemous Cantos, Hoyt had accepted Duré’s cruciform as well as his own, but had later returned to Hyperion in the last days before the Fall to beg the evil Shrike to relieve him of his burden. The Church pointed out the falseness of that, explaining how Father Hoyt had courageously returned to face down the demon in its own lair. Whatever the interpretation, facts recorded that Hoyt had died during that last pilgrimage to Hyperion, Duré had been resurrected carrying Father Hoyt’s cruciform as well as his own, and had then returned during the chaos of the Fall to become the first antipope in modern history. Duré/Teilhard I’s nine standard years of heresy had been a low point for the Church, but after the false pope’s death by accident, Lenar Hoyt’s resurrection from the shared body had led to the glory of Julius VI, the discovery of the sacramental nature of what Duré had called a parasite, Julius’s revelation from God—still understood only by the innermost sancta of the Church—of how the resurrections could be guided to success, and the subsequent growth of the Church from a minor sect to the official faith of humanity.

Father Captain Federico de Soya watches the Pope—a thin, pale man—lift the Eucharist high above the altar, and the Pax commander shivers in the chill of sheer wonder.

Father Baggio had explained that the overwhelming sense of newness and wonder that was the aftereffect of Holy Resurrection would wear off to some extent in the days and weeks to come, but that the essential feeling of well-being would always linger, growing stronger with each rebirth in Christ. De Soya could see why the Church held suicide as one of its most mortal sins—punishable by immediate excommunication—since the glow of nearness to God was so much stronger after tasting the ashes of death. Resurrection could easily become addictive if the punishment for suicide were not so terrible.

Still aching from the pain of death and rebirth, his mind and senses literally lurching from vertigo, Father Captain de Soya watches the papal Mass approach the climax of Communion, St. Peter’s Basilica filling now with the same burst of sound and glory with which the service began, and—knowing that in a moment he will taste the Body and Blood of Christ as transubstantiated by the Holy Father himself—the warrior weeps like a little child.

After the mass, in the cool of the evening, with the sky above St. Peter’s the color of pale porcelain, Father Captain de Soya walks with his new friends in the shadows of the Vatican Gardens.

“Federico,” Father Baggio is saying, “the meeting we are about to have is very important. Very, very important. Is your mind clear enough to understand the important things that will be said?”

“Yes,” says de Soya. “My mind is very clear.”

Monsignor Lucas Oddi touches the young Pax officer’s shoulder. “Federico, my son, you are certain of this? We can wait another day if we must.”

De Soya shakes his head. His mind is reeling with the beauty and solemnity of the Mass he has just witnessed, his tongue still tastes the perfection of the Eucharist and the Wine, he feels that Christ is whispering to him at this very moment, but his thoughts are clear. “I am ready,” he says. Captain Wu is a silent shadow behind Oddi.

“Very good,” says the Monsignor, and nods to Father Baggio. “We will need your services no longer, Father. Thank you.”

Baggio nods, bows slightly, and leaves without another word. In his perfect clarity, de Soya realizes that he will never see his kindly resurrection chaplain again, and a surge of pure love brings more tears to his eyes. He is grateful to the darkness that hides these tears; he knows he must be in control for the meeting. He wonders where this important conference will be held—in the fabled Borgia Apartment? In the Sistine Chapel? In the Vatican Offices of the Holy See? Perhaps in the Pax Liaison offices in what had once been called the Borgia Tower.

Monsignor Lucas Oddi stops at the far end of the gardens, waves the others to a stone bench near where another man waits, and Father de Soya realizes that the seated man is Cardinal Lourdusamy and that the conference is happening here, in the scented gardens. The priest goes to his knee on the gravel in front of the Monsignor and kisses the ring on the extended hand.

“Rise,” says Cardinal Lourdusamy. He is a large man with a round face and heavy jowls, and his deep voice sounds like the voice of God to de Soya. “Be seated,” says the Cardinal.

De Soya sits on the stone bench as the others remain standing. To the Cardinal’s left, another man sits in the shadows. De Soya can make out a Pax uniform in the dim light but not the insignia. He is vaguely aware of other people—at least one seated and several standing—within the deeper shadows of a bower to their left.

“Father de Soya,” begins Simon Augustino Cardinal Lourdusamy, nodding toward the seated man on his left, “may I present Fleet Admiral William Lee Marusyn.”

De Soya is on his feet in an instant, saluting, holding himself at rigid attention. “My apologies, Admiral,” he manages through clenched jaws. “I did not recognize you, sir.”

“At ease,” says Marusyn. “Be seated, Captain.”

De Soya takes his seat again, but gingerly now, awareness of the company he is in burning through the joyous fog of resurrection like hot sunlight.

“We are well pleased with you, Captain,” says Admiral Marusyn.

“Thank you, sir,” mumbles the priest, glancing around the shadows again. There are definitely others watching from the bower.

“As are we,” rumbles Cardinal Lourdusamy. “That is why we have chosen you for this mission.”

“Mission, Your Excellency?” says de Soya. He feels dizzy with tension and confusion.

“As always, you will be serving both the Pax and the Church,” says the Admiral, leaning closer in the dim light. The world of Pacem has no moon, but the starlight here is very bright as de Soya’s eyes adapt to the dim light. Somewhere a small bell rings monks to Vespers. Lights from the Vatican buildings bathe the dome of St. Peter’s in a soft glow.

“As always,” continues the Cardinal, “you will report to both the Church and the military authorities.” The huge man pauses and glances at the Admiral.

“What is my mission, Your Excellency? Admiral?” asks de Soya, not knowing which man to address. Marusyn is his ultimate superior, but Pax officers usually defer to high officials of the Church.

Neither man answers, but Marusyn nods toward Captain Marget Wu, who stands several meters away near a hedge. The Pax officer steps forward quickly and hands de Soya a holocube.

“Activate it,” says Admiral Marusyn.

De Soya touches the underside of the small ceramic block. The image of a female child mists into existence above the cube. De Soya rotates the image, noticing the girl’s dark hair, large eyes, and intense gaze. The child’s disembodied head and neck are the brightest things in the darkness of the Vatican Gardens. Father de Soya looks up and sees the glow from the holo in the eyes of the Cardinal and the Admiral.

“Her name… well, we are not sure of her name,” says Cardinal Lourdusamy. “How old does she look to you, Father?”

De Soya looks back at the image, considers her age, and converts the years to standard. “Perhaps twelve?” he guesses. He has spent little time around children since he was one. “Eleven? Standard.”

Cardinal Lourdusamy nods. “She was eleven, standard, on Hyperion, when she disappeared more than two hundred sixty standard years ago, Father.”

De Soya looks back at the holo. So the child is probably dead—he could not remember if the Pax had brought the Sacrament of Resurrection to Hyperion 277 years ago—or certainly grown and reborn. He wonders why they are showing him a holo of this person as a child from centuries ago. He waits.

“This child is the daughter of a woman named Brawne Lamia,” says Admiral Marusyn. “Does the name mean anything to you, Father?”

It does, but for a moment de Soya cannot think why. Then the verses of the Cantos come to mind, and he remembers the female pilgrim in that story.

“Yes,” he says. “I remember the name. She was one of the pilgrims with His Holiness during that final pilgrimage before the Fall.”

Cardinal Lourdusamy leans closer and folds pudgy hands together on his knee. His robe is bright red where the light from the holo touches it. “Brawne Lamia had sexual intercourse with an abomination,” rumbles the Cardinal. “A cybrid. A cloned human construct whose mind was an artificial intelligence residing in the TechnoCore. Do you remember the history and the banned poem?”

Father de Soya blinks. Is it possible that they have brought him here to the Vatican to punish him for reading the Cantos when he was a child? He confessed the sin twenty years ago, did penance, and never reread the forbidden work. He blushes.

Cardinal Lourdusamy chuckles. “It is all right, my son. Everyone in the Church has committed this particular sin… Curiosity is too great, the appeal of the forbidden too strong… We have all read the banned poem. Do you remember that the woman Lamia had carnal relations with the cybrid of John Keats?”

“Vaguely,” says de Soya, then hurriedly adds, “Your Excellency.”

“And do you know who John Keats was, my son?”

“No, Your Excellency.”

“He was a pre-Hegira poet,” says the Cardinal in his rumble of a voice. High overhead, the blue-plasma braking tails of three Pax dropships cut across the starfield. Father Captain de Soya does not even have to glance at them to recognize the make and armament of the ships. He is not surprised that he had not remembered the details of the poet’s name from the forbidden Cantos; even as a boy, Federico de Soya had been more interested in reading about machines and great space battles than anything pre-Hegira, especially poetry.

“The woman in the blasphemous poem—Brawne Lamia—not only had intercourse with the cybrid abomination,” continues the Cardinal, “but she bore the creature’s child.”

De Soya raises his eyebrows. “I did not know that cybrids… I mean… I thought that they were… well…”

Cardinal Lourdusamy chuckles. “Were sterile?” he says. “Like androids? No… the AI obscenities had cloned the man. And the man impregnated this daughter of Eve.”

De Soya nods, although all this talk of cybrids and androids might as well be about griffins and unicorns for all he is concerned. These things existed once. To his knowledge, none could exist today. Father Captain de Soya’s mind races as he tries to imagine just what in God’s universe all this talk of dead poets and pregnant women might have to do with him.

As if answering de Soya’s mental query, Admiral Marusyn says, “The girl whose image floats in front of you is that child, Captain. After the cybrid abomination was destroyed, this child was born to Brawne Lamia on the world of Hyperion.”

“She was not fully… human,” whispers Cardinal Lourdusamy. “Although the body of her… father… the Keats cybrid… was destroyed, his AI persona was stored in a Schrön Loop shunt.”

Admiral Marusyn also leans closer, as if this information is for just the three of them. “We believe that this child communicated with the Keats persona trapped in that Schrön Loop even before she was born,” he says softly. “We are almost certain that this… fetus… was in touch with the TechnoCore via that cybrid persona.”

De Soya feels and ignores an impulse to cross himself. His reading, instruction, and faith have taught him that the TechnoCore had been evil incarnate, simply the most active manifestation of the Evil One in modern human history. The destruction of the TechnoCore had been the salvation of not only the beleaguered Church, but of humanity itself. De Soya tries to imagine what an unborn human soul would learn from direct contact with those disembodied, soulless intelligences.

“The child is dangerous,” whispers Cardinal Lourdusamy. “Even though the TechnoCore was banished by the Fall of the farcasters, even though the Church no longer allows soulless machines to have true intelligence, this child has been programmed as an agent of those fallen AIs… an agent of the Evil One.”

De Soya rubs his cheek. He is suddenly very tired. “You speak as though she is still alive,” he says softly. “And still a child.”

Cardinal Lourdusamy’s silken robes rustle as he shifts position. His voice is an ominous baritone. “She lives,” he says. “She is still a child.”

De Soya looks back at the young girl’s holo as it floats between them. He touches the cube and the image fades. “Cryogenic storage?” he says.

“On Hyperion there are Time Tombs,” rumbles Lourdusamy. “One of them—a thing called the Sphinx, which you may remember from the poem or Church history—has been used as a portal across time. No one knows how it works. For most people, it does not work at all.” The Cardinal glances at the Admiral and then back to the priest-captain before him. “This child disappeared in the Sphinx some two hundred sixty-four standard years ago. We knew at the time that she was dangerous to the Pax, but we arrived days late. We have reliable information that she will emerge from that tomb in less than a standard month… still a child. Still lethally dangerous to the Pax.”

“Dangerous to the Pax…” repeats de Soya. He does not understand.

“His Holiness has foreseen this danger,” rumbles Cardinal Lourdusamy. “Almost three centuries ago Our Lord saw fit to reveal to His Holiness the threat this poor child represents, and the Holy Father has now moved to deal with this danger.”

“I don’t understand,” confesses Father Captain de Soya. The holo is off, but he can still see the innocent face of the child in his mind. “How can this little girl be a danger… then or now?”

Cardinal Lourdusamy squeezes de Soya’s forearm. “As an agent of the TechnoCore, she will be a virus introduced into the Body of Christ. It has been revealed to His Holiness that the girl will have powers… powers that are not human. One of these powers is the power to persuade the faithful to leave the light of God’s teachings, to abandon salvation for service to the Evil One.”

De Soya nods, although he does not understand. His forearm aches from the pressure of Lourdusamy’s powerful hand. “What do you wish of me, Your Excellency?”

Admiral Marusyn answers in a loud voice that shocks de Soya after all of the soft tones and whispering. “As of this moment,” snaps Marusyn, “you are detached from your Fleet assignment, Father Captain de Soya. As of this moment, you are assigned to find and return this child… this girl… to the Vatican.”

The Cardinal seems to catch a glint of anxiety in de Soya’s eyes. “My son,” he says, his deep voice soothing now, “are you afraid the child might be harmed?”

“Yes, Your Excellency.” De Soya wonders if this admission will disqualify him from service.

Lourdusamy’s touch lightens, becomes a friendlier grip. “Be assured, my son, that no one in the Holy See… no one in the Pax… has any intention of harming this little girl. Indeed, the Holy Father has instructed us… has instructed you… to make it your second-highest priority that no harm shall come to her.”

“Your first priority,” says the Admiral, “is to return her here… to Pacem. To Pax Command here in the Vatican.”

De Soya nods and swallows. The question foremost in his mind is Why me? Aloud, he says, “Yes, sir. I understand.”

“You will receive a papal-authority diskey,” continues the Admiral. “You may requisition any materials, help, liaison, or personnel it is in the power of local Pax authorities to provide. Do you have any questions about that?”

“No, sir.” De Soya’s voice is firm, but his mind is reeling. A papal-authority diskey would give him more power than that bestowed on Pax planetary governors.

“You will translate to Hyperion system this very day,” continues Admiral Marusyn in the same brisk, no-nonsense voice of command. “Captain Wu?”

The Pax military aide steps forward and hands de Soya a red action portfolio disk. The father-captain nods, but his mind is screaming, To Hyperion system this day… The archangel courier ship! To die again. The pain. No, sweet Jesus, dear Lord. Let this cup pass from me!

“You will have command of our newest and most advanced courier ship, Captain,” Marusyn is saying. “It is similar to the one which brought you to Pacem system, except that it can hold six passengers, it is armed to the level of your former torchship, and it has an automated resurrection system.”

“Yes, sir,” says de Soya. An automated resurrection system? he thinks. Is the sacrament to be administered by a machine?

Cardinal Lourdusamy pats his arm again. “The robot system is regrettable, my son. But the ship may carry you to places where the Pax and the Church do not exist. We cannot deny you resurrection simply because you are beyond the reach of God’s servants. Be assured, my son, that the Holy Father himself has blessed this resurrection equipment and ordained it with the same sacramental imperative a true Resurrection Mass would offer.”

“Thank you, Your Excellency,” de Soya mumbles. “But I do not understand… places beyond the Church… Did you not say that I was to travel to Hyperion? I have never been there, but I thought that this world was a member of…”

“It belongs to the Pax,” interrupts the Admiral. “But if you are unsuccessful in capturing…” He pauses. “In rescuing this child… if for some unforeseen reason you must follow her to other worlds, other systems… we thought it best that the ship have an automated resurrection créche for you.”

De Soya bows his head in obedience and confusion.

“But we expect you to find the child on Hyperion,” continues Admiral Marusyn. “When you arrive on that world, you will introduce yourself and show your papal diskey to Groundforce Commander Barnes-Avne. The Commander is in charge of the Swiss Guard Brigade that has been prepositioned on Hyperion, and upon your arrival you will be in effective command of those troops.”

De Soya blinks. Command of a Swiss Guard Brigade? I am a Fleet torchship captain! I wouldn’t know a groundforce maneuver from a cavalry charge!

Admiral Marusyn chuckles. “We understand that this is a bit out of your regular line of duty, Father Captain de Soya, but be assured that your command status is necessary. Commander Barnes-Avne will continue day-to-day command of ground-forces, but it is imperative that all resources be bent to the rescue of this child.”

De Soya clears his throat. “What will happen to… You say that we do not know her name? The child, I mean.”

“Before she disappeared,” rumbles Cardinal Lourdusamy, “she called herself Aenea. And as for what will happen to her… again, I reassure you, my son, our intentions are to prevent her from infecting the Body of Christ in the Pax from her virus, but we will do so without harming her. Indeed, our mission… your mission… is to save the child’s immortal soul. The Holy Father himself will see to that.”

Something in the Cardinal’s voice makes de Soya realize that the conference is over. The father-captain stands, sensing the resurrection displacement shifting inside him like vertigo. I must die again within the day! Still joyous, he nonetheless feels like weeping.

Admiral Marusyn is also standing. “Father Captain de Soya, your reassignment to this mission is effective until the child is delivered unto me, here at the Vatican military liaison office.”

“Within weeks, we are sure,” rumbles Cardinal Lourdusamy, still seated.

“This is a great and terrible responsibility,” says the Admiral. “You must use every ounce of your faith and your abilities to carry out His Holiness’s expressed wish to bring this child safely to the Vatican—before the destructive virus of her programmed treachery is spread among our Brothers and Sisters in Christ. We know that you will not let us down, Father Captain de Soya.”

“Thank you, sir,” says de Soya, and thinks again, Why me? He kneels to kiss the Cardinal’s ring and rises to find that the Admiral has stepped back in the darkness of the bower where the other shadowy figures have not stirred.

Monsignor Lucas Oddi and Pax Captain Marget Wu move to either side of de Soya and act as escorts as they turn to leave the garden. It is then, his mind still lurching in confusion and shock, his heart pounding with eagerness and terror at the important service set before him, that Father Captain de Soya glances back just as a rising dropship’s plasma tail lights the dome of St. Peter’s, the rooftops of the Vatican, and the garden with its pulse of blue flame. For an instant the figures within the arched shadow of the bower are clearly visible, illuminated by the strobe of blue plasma light. Admiral Marusyn is there, already turned away from de Soya, as are two standing Swiss Guard officers in combat armor, their flechette weapons raised at port arms. But it is the seated figure illuminated for that instant who will haunt de Soya’s dreams and thoughts for years to come.

Seated there on the garden bench, his sad eyes locked firmly on de Soya’s retreating form, his high brow and mournful countenance painted briefly but indelibly in blue plasma glow, is His Holiness, Pope Julius XIV, the Holy Father to more than six hundred billion faithful Catholics, the de facto ruler of four hundred billion more scattered souls in the far-flung Pax, and the man who has just launched Federico de Soya on his fateful voyage.