by Greg M. Hall
Christendom.”
He had been suspicious of the Church’s intentions from the beginning, yet his eyes still widened at my revelation.
I shrugged. “Honestly, Raymond, I don’t want people to die over this. But there are others in Minaplas with more influence than I who wouldn’t think twice about it. They don’t want to see technology wipe humanity out on its third attempt.”
He stood and paced to a window, gazing out at his beloved illumination for a while before turning back to me. “But you realize: if we don’t allow it, nobody sets foot in this city. Yet, conversely, if the Andrians don’t allow it, nobody leaves the city either. You’ve got us, and our technology, trapped.”
“History is full of futile attempts to ‘trap’ ideas.”
“Yes, but these ideas are mine alone. Oh, sure, the artisans help me build the bits and pieces, but I have no apprentice. And who on the outside can I communicate with? You’re the first visitor to the city in a generation.”
I thought for a moment. “The lights would have to start burning out, without replacement. When the last one is gone, maybe people will stop talking about Pingwot.”
Raymond returned that thought with a bitter laugh. “And, of course, you’d be so naive that you’d assume I wouldn’t continue my work here?”
“Unfortunately, Raymond, I think we’re at a… What did you call it a couple of games back? A ‘stalemate’. I can promise you that I’d go back to my superiors and tell them you’re no threat, and you can promise that you’ll let the lights burn out, but what good would those promises really be?”
Before he could respond, I rose. “Why don’t we sleep on this. Perhaps the morning light will make an arrangement based on words appear less…rickety?”
I took two steps toward the door when he stopped me. “Father Bertolo: Why didn’t you ask the other question?”
“You mean: Where did you learn all this? Or how did you end up entering Pingwot seven years ago?”
“Time travel. Answers both questions, wouldn’t you agree?”
I studied Raymond’s face and concluded he wasn’t joking. I’ve met too many brilliant eccentrics in my day, and a fair portion of savants who had passed from eccentricity to dementia. He believed he’d come from another era… I found it most disturbing, since he was otherwise so rational.
“Any chance of returning?”
“Ah, no. Now that I’ve had a chance to reconstruct my equipment, and do some more experimentation, I’m convinced I can only go forward, not backward.”
I nodded, as calmly as I could, suppressing an urge to ask him why Second Man allowed their technology to ruin them… As if he were their envoy to us; as if he were actually from that time. I needed to get out of there.
“Well. As I said before, perhaps one of us will come up with a good compromise by dawn.”
Instead of my guest-room, I headed straight for the city gates. I told Dinsmore I’d concluded business with Raymond and was prepared to bring a positive report back to the Chancery, and he bid me farewell. Unfortunately, the Andrian patrol that found me at the bottom of the trail wasn’t as accommodating. They brought me straight to Rickard.
The Major stared at me with beady eyes across his desk, hands wrapped around his baton, allowing the awkward silence to stretch out before rewording his first question.
“And you just walked out of the city?”
“Yes.” I tried keeping exasperation out of my response. I don’t think I did very well. “But as a condition I promised them I would not share intelligence with you.”
“I must know how many men they have defending the wall, at what times they change watches, and what weaponry they possess.”
I shook my head, flabbergasted. “I just told you: I can’t—”
“The Empire has given you free passage here. One of the core principles of our siege has been violated. I think a bit of intelligence is only fair, in exchange for my not throwing you in a cage.”
As badly as I wanted to demand an audience with General Burz, I held my tongue. After the earlier humiliation I’d triggered, Rickard might have made arrangements for my quiet disappearance. Or perhaps, in the privacy of his office, I might ‘accidentally’ bounce my head off his baton a few times.
I slumped and ran a hand through my hair. “May I have some paper? And a quill with some ink?”
“I can see to that.” The Major likely intended me to receive his tooth-baring expression as a smile. He rose, boots clogging on the floorboards, and opened his office door. “Langholt!” he screeched. “Stationery!”
The chess matches with Raymond reminded me that sometimes you must sacrifice a piece to win the match. While giving Rickard intelligence would technically be political tampering, something that could get me into a lot of trouble, I needed the paper. I’d memorized a lot during my time in Pingwot and it wouldn’t survive the long trip back to the Chancery.
“I’ll need some time alone.”
The Andrian opened the door, admitting a junior officer with an armful of rolled parchment. “Feel free to use my quill and ink.” As he swaggered down the hallway, he paused to murmur something to a guard, who nodded and turned to give me a jaundiced look.
I thanked Langholt, a stocky and plain-faced man who could not have been shaving for more than a couple of years. Immediately, I dunked quill into bottle and scratched it against the parchment, recording what I’d learned in my morning conversations with those who crafted Raymond’s components.
The young officer watched me in silence before asking: “What are all those symbols?”
“Diagrams, my son, and…um, recipes of a sort. If you’re interested, you’ll need to enter the seminary. Only there can you receive the education necessary to comprehend this.”
“Sorry, Father. I don’t think I’d make a very good priest.”
I smiled but didn’t look up from my etchings. I’d come to Pingwot with a knowledge of the principles, but any good engineer will tell you that without proper materials, nothing works. The research arm of the Diocese had been trying to refine the manufacture of filaments for generations. We’d cobbled together prototype after prototype of an electric motor without any success. The advances in chemistry that Raymond had enabled could replace years of experiments.
The artisans of Pingwot, oblivious to how important each of their tiny component tasks were, had unwittingly given me all of the secrets that their wizard possessed and I didn’t.
Langholt watched me write, oblivious to the tremendous amount of money the Church stood to make from these notes. Money that represented far greater power than military might could ever bring.
No, a simple Franciscan like myself has no need for wealth. But throughout our long history, the Church has come to realize that it’s far more effective to buy good behavior and peaceful international relations than it is to actually convince people to do it out of the goodness of their hearts.
By the time I’d filled the front of the scrap of parchment with my notes, and flipped the page over to begin inking the back, the Andrian could no longer overcome his boredom.
“If you need anything else, Father, just tell the guard down the hall.”
“If it’s not too much trouble: perhaps some tea?”
He left me in Rickard’s office, and though I welcomed the solitude, with it came a pang of guilt.
In the era of Third Man, the Church’s monopoly over science had thus far prevented its misuse. That knowledge didn’t make my deceit in the presence of Raymond and my theft of his ideas any easier to forget. I’m supposed to embody an ideal life free of sin… But sometimes, for the greater good, you have to do what must be done.
I continued transcribing my memories, hoping I’d survive the trip back to Minaplas, where I could make my confession.
>+<
About the Author:
In addition to the Fantasy novel Stunted and action/suspense novel Traffic Control, Greg M
. Hall has a couple dozen stories published online and in print. For more of his stories, visit his website at www.gregmhall.com, his podcast at www.killbox.mevio.com, or his blog at sf.gregmhall.com. He lives in eastern Nebraska with his wife, a bunch of kids, and pet tortoise.
