Apostate Konstantin

by Max Kramer

  “The bigger they are…” Konstantin muttered, plucking the key card from the twitching hulk’s hand, kicking him in the head again for good measure.

  Stepping to the wall, he slid the key into the slot, causing the cell door to whoosh upwards in its hydraulic track. Konstantin stood silhouetted, the light in the hallway filtering past him into the inky black chamber. Sister Brita lay against the far wall, her manacled hands held up to shield her unadjusted eyes from the sudden illumination.

  Konstantin turned, and grabbing the feet of the guard, dragged his limp form into the suddenly crowded cell. Sister Brita’s expression flew from frightened, to confused, to desperately hopeful as she realized who her visitor was. Drawing herself into a crouch she blinked rapidly up at Konstantin, uncertain whether she should hug him or run from him. Deciding against fleeing, she stood and approached her brother, who was busy digging through the guard’s pockets. Finding the keys that fit her chains, he unlocked them quickly, still avoiding looking her in the eye. Finally she grabbed his chin, forcing him to meet her gaze. Her brief incarceration had not diminished her beauty, if anything her slightly disheveled appearance somehow made her seem even more delicate and feminine. Konstantin thanked God that she had neither been drugged, nor had the interrogators gotten to her yet. He wondered if God was listening to him anymore.

  “Fred, what is this?” She asked quietly. “What have you done?”

  Konstantin glared at her, swatting her hand away. Poking a finger toward her face he growled, “how did this happen? What did you do?”

  Brita stood quietly, swaying from side to side uncertainly, until slowly, haltingly, the words began to flow out of her.

  “I…don’t really know.” Brita said, “No, that’s not exactly true. There was an accident two days ago. A crash in the city. One of our troop transport trucks hit a little girl. She was brought here to the infirmary, where our priest-practitioners did everything they could, but the damage was too severe. The accident had broken her neck, leaving her paralyzed, and in a coma. We weren’t going to be able to save her. Even with all our technology, all our medical knowledge, all we were doing was prolonging the inevitable. This small, innocent child was hooked up to our most powerful machines, but I could see her weakening with every artificially induced breath. There was no way she was going to survive through the night. We were ordered to focus our attention on other patients, ones who had a chance of survival. I decided then that at the very least, I wouldn’t let this poor girl die alone. After my shift, I came back to her room, and sat with her. I promised myself I would be with her, and hold her hand and pray until the end came. At first I was sad, but as time passed, I began feeling angry. I was watching this poor broken little girl, who had already lost so much, quietly die in the night, and I was doing nothing. I was doing nothing, but I knew I could help her. I still don’t know how I knew it Freddy, I swear, or what I did exactly, but as I held that girl’s hand, I could feel the hurt inside her, the wrongness of her injuries, and I knew how to make her right again. When I looked into myself, I suddenly felt this whole new awareness, and this new reserve of power that I had never felt before. I didn’t really know how to access or direct it, but I knew I had to try. I instinctively tapped this resource I felt inside myself, and I somehow transferred it into her. The effort exhausted me, but I kept doing it until I was totally spent. I felt so weak, like I had just gotten over a grave illness, but it was worth it Freddy, because I saved that girl. Right before I passed out, I felt her little fingers squeeze my hand, as if to say thank you.”

  “So what happened the next morning?” Konstantin asked, “how did your superiors react?”

  Brita suppressed a sob with a long, shuddery breath. “Badly. While I slept, that little girl woke up. I can’t imagine the terror she felt, waking up in an unfamiliar place, hooked to all those machines. She must have started crying, and fighting against her restraints, because by the time I woke up there was already a commotion of priests and sisters in the room. One of the priest-practitioners who was familiar with her file walked in, took one look at her, and ordered her executed. They killed her Freddy! Because they thought she was a witch! They knew she should have died that night, and that she could not possibly have healed without help, but they got it wrong. She wasn’t the witch. I am.”

  Brita slumped against one of the cell walls, hugging her arms across her middle as she stared dejectedly at the floor.

  “I should have never tried to help her. I doomed two people to death with my actions. Her, and me.”

  Konstantin shook his head. “No. You don’t need to die this day. I made an oath to protect you Brita. I do not know what evil you are involved in, and I cannot approve of it, but I will do my best to see you cured of this curse. If, however, you ever use magic in my presence again, your reprieve will be over, because I will kill you myself. Do you understand?”

  Brita raised her eyes. “Yes Frederick. But what do we do?”

  “I have a few ideas. First we need to get out of here. Now.” Shoving the manacles back into Brita’s hands he said, “Put these back on, but do not lock them. They need only look secure.”

  When that thing was done, Konstantin grabbed Brita’s elbow, pulling her from the cell. Removing the key card closed the door again, which left the prostrate Swiss Guard to slumber on in the dark. Pulling Sister Brita along Konstantin retraced his route, whisking past the guard at the entrance to the dungeons. His glare silenced any questions the guard thought to ask, and he remained standing at his post staring blindly at the far wall. Around the next corner Konstantin paused, pulling the grate off of a heating duct as quietly as possible. With equal stealth, he removed Brita’s restraints and set them as far back into the duct as he could reach. While he replaced the grate, Sister Brita busied herself smoothing her hair and clothes.

  Once a semblance of normalcy was restored, they set off again, moving ever upwards through the complex. For all outward appearances they were just two more members of the Church, going about their business. Whenever it looked like they might be stopped, Konstantin’s fingers moved towards his pistols, hidden underneath his heavy coat. Every time however, they were passed by with little more than a word of greeting for Sister Brita, and an openly fearful glance toward Konstantin. The work of the Inquisitors was shrouded in secrecy, and the Swiss Guard were hardly gossips, so none but another member of his order would have any idea that Sister Brita had been placed into custody. Luckily, Konstantin failed to cross paths with any of his brothers, and no alarm was raised.

  Now that the most immediate danger seemed past, Konstantin felt the annoying beginnings of regret and indecision. What was he doing protecting a proven user of magic? How could he come to terms with his actions since leaving his chamber? If he were to turn back now, he would be chastised, but probably forgiven in the end. If he continued on this path however, his future contained only damnation.

  As if sensing his mood, Brita remained quiet, trailing him by a half step. They made it through the new Vatican unchallenged, passing under the thick walls of the basilica and out the great bronze doors. Once in St. Peter’s square they disappeared into the crowds of somber pilgrims gathering to receive the blessing of the Church.

  On they walked down the busy roadway into New Rome, away from their home. On they walked, toward eternal damnation. On they walked, and their passage did not go unnoticed.

  3

  Giuseppe Moretti’s life was boring. It had taken him a long time to realize this, but then it took him a long time to realize most things. The fifth son of a locomotive engineer, Giuseppe’s four older brothers had grown up to become engineers themselves. Giuseppe on the other hand found a job working the ticket booth at Termini Station. He knew his family considered him a failure. His mother told him so daily. He knew his ex-wife agreed with them. She had told him so the day she left. Years ago, he had decided to do something about his situation, to prove to everyone how much he could accomplish. He enrolled in the Instituto T
ecnico, he even bought a book. Unfortunately he lost his schedule and could not find his classes for a month and a half. After his first semester’s exams he had three eighteens and a fifteen. Giuseppe Moretti went back to punching tickets.

  Most of the ticketing in Termini Station was now done electronically, with travelers making their purchases at computer kiosks throughout the terminal. The old booths sat empty, with only one at the end still lit, for paper ticket sales during power outages. Here lurked Giuseppe day after day, listening to hidden speakers whisper their dogmatic message, and watching the hustle and bustle pass him by. Much like his life had passed him by, he thought sadly. For the most part he was merely an onlooker, sitting behind his window. He was separated from everyone, yet liked to imagine that their actions were all a grand play made only for him. Every once in a while, some errant passenger would approach; causing poor Giuseppe to brighten considerably, but most moved on with little more than a glance. To them he was an obsolete curiosity, an unlamented relic of an age where humans relied on each other, and took pleasure in casual interaction.

  As the hours slowly passed in the booth, he wished that something extraordinary would occur. Today he found himself wishing quite the opposite. It began when the small fan he had tacked to the wall behind him stopped working. It took a long moment for the sudden quiet and the still air on his neck to break through his customary lethargy. It took another long moment for him to lever his prodigious bulk around to investigate. He had already begun sweating. Giuseppe had promised himself that he would start exercising again after his wife left him. Like most things Giuseppe Moretti promised himself, he never quite got to it.

  After a few experimental pokes and a vigorous shake the old fan began showing signs of life. With the unhealthy grind of broken internal components it wheezed back into a jerky pantomime of its former movement. Satisfied with his minor success, Giuseppe himself wheezed back to the front of the booth. While he was attempting to return to his customary position he found himself face to face with the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Simple clothes did nothing to hide a regal bearing, which somehow made her seem even taller than she already was. She took his breath away like no journey to fix a disobedient appliance ever could. For long moments he blinked owlishly through thickly smudged glasses as her kind blue eyes peeked back from behind errant blonde locks.

  “Did you hear me, train man?” barked a gruff voice. “We need some tickets.”

  Giuseppe was startled. He had never imagined an angel would sound so masculine. It was not until a large hand gently pushed the woman out of the way that he realized she had not been the one who had spoken. Now he found himself staring through the window into startlingly dark eyes, and they did not look kind. Giuseppe’s jaw dropped. The man was a Holy Inquisitor; there was no mistaking that uniform.

  “Tickets you said sir? Of course sir, what tickets do you need sir?”

  “Well, seeing as this is a train station, train tickets would be nice.”

  Giuseppe blushed. “Yes sir, of course sir. What I meant to say was where would you like to go? Sir.” He began fidgeting frantically with his papers, wishing the dark eyed man would stop staring at him like that. Surprisingly, the woman moved to his rescue, slapping the Inquisitor on the shoulder.

  “We know what you meant friend, my brother here is just being difficult.” Her voice was like the smooth velvet of his ex-wife’s good dress. Giuseppe blushed again.

  “We would like to take the express to Paris, Mr…”

  “Moretti.” He stammered. “Giuseppe Moretti. One moment please.”

  Grabbing two pencils, he began tapping the erasers frantically on his keyboard. His thick fingers sometimes pressed more than one key at a time, and he wanted to take no chances messing up the order of a member of the Church. Especially not that of an Inquisitor. After what seemed like an extra long pause to Giuseppe, the machine printed out their passes and he watched them walk off to the terminal their train would be departing from.

  Leaning back on his stool he blew out a deep breath. He was glad to be out from under the eyes of the Inquisitor. What an adventure. In Giuseppe Moretti’s life he had never been so afraid. The woman had been beautiful though….

  ***

  “What do we do now Fred?” Brita Konstantin asked for the third time. For the third time Frederick Konstantin ignored her as he stared out the window and nibbled on a bag of mixed nuts. They had been on the train for some time, gliding through moonlit countryside. With most roads through the wilds in disrepair, and the airports in Italy under the direct control of the Church, Konstantin had decided the heavily armored trains still servicing the majority of what remained of Europe were the safest way to travel. Thus far, his decision seemed to be paying off, as they were far from the city and moving fast.

  After fleeing the Vatican, the duo had gone to ground at one of the safe houses he maintained in the city proper. There he had finally found the time to eat a quick meal while Brita changed into some practical travel clothes he had procured for her. Konstantin opted to remain in his Inquisitor’s outfit. Odds were people would recognize him for what he was. He was relying on it.

  Brita once again asked her question, and Konstantin once again remained silent. Truthfully he was not sure what to do about their predicament. It was clear that he needed to get them both away from the influence of The Church. Once they placed some distance between themselves and their superiors, he would then decide what to do about his sister.

  The Church’s lands in no way encompassed the entire world, but they were extensive, roughly mirroring the size and shape of the old Roman Empire at its peak. Much like the stories he had read of that ancient civilization, the Church was strongest at its center and kept a more tenuous hold along its periphery. Unlike old Rome however, this kingdom was no republic. Years of strife and uncertainty after the Judgment had allowed the centralized Church theocracy to impose harsher and harsher restrictions on its populace. Within its heavily defended borders, citizens were protected from attack and free from hunger, but the price had been steep. Free will was a thing of the past.

  Outside Church lands, it was rumored that a few rival nations maintained unstable control, but most of the old world was still a wild place. During the Judgment, nature reclaimed much that humanity had endeavored to create. The outer rim was a place of wild animals and wilder humans. Some were exiles. Some chose their barbaric life over the rigors of Church authority. And some were rumored to be the descendents of people who had never taken shelter during the Judgment. These were the worst, little more than animals, plagued by mutation and insanity. They were also the most likely to control dangerous magics. This was where Konstantin had conducted a large percentage of his Inquisitions. He knew the wilds better than most, knew what to expect. He hoped his experience there would be sufficient to protect Brita from Church retaliation.

  At the moment they seemed safe enough, cozily ensconced in a private sleeper car, rattling along through the Italian Alps. Konstantin took another long look at the indistinguishable shapes drifting past in the night and then turned to his sister.

  “Right now, we just need to think about getting you to safety. I have a good idea where we could go for that. Then I’m going to figure out how to cure you.” Konstantin refused to acknowledge Brita’s abilities as anything other than a vile affliction. He was convinced that there was some way to treat her magic. There had to be.

  He turned back toward the window. “Get some rest Brita. It’s getting late.”

  Lulled by the rhythmic lurch of the high speed train, she was soon breathing deeply and evenly on her couch. Konstantin remained at his post, keeping vigil long into the night.

  ***

  Giuseppe Moretti was bored again. After the earlier excitement of the day he thought his heart would never stop racing. Time passed however, and so did the crowds, lulling him back into a semi-comatose state. It was a few hours after his brief encounter with the Inquisitor and the short-haired gir
l and he was preparing for the end of his shift. As he gathered his meager belongings Giuseppe noticed something else was amiss in his world.

  The intimidating Swiss Guard had entered the station. In frightening numbers they were moving throughout the concourse stopping everyone with some questions and a waved piece of paper.

  Giuseppe shrank back in his booth, wishing he could be closer in stature to the mice that sometimes scurried by underfoot than the hippopotamus his mother so cruelly compared him to. In Giuseppe Moretti’s experience, being questioned by the Swiss Guard was never a good thing.

  Despite his best efforts to think invisible thoughts, he was approached by one of the armored men. As the masked man turned toward the window, a cold sweat broke out on Giuseppe’s brow.

  “You there, in the booth. Have you seen these individuals?” The man slapped a paper against the window. Giuseppe fumbled with his battered glasses, blinking blearily at the paper. It took a moment for his brain to register what his eyes were seeing, and when it did his jaw dropped. On the paper were reprinted photographs of the Inquisitor and the girl from before.

  Giuseppe heard a voice stammering that they had been through the terminal earlier. It took him a moment to recognize the voice as his own. At the soldier’s bidding, a few taps of his pencils on the keyboard pulled up their destination. Paris, France. He was quite sure it was them, yes. That also had to be the correct train, yes. They were the only tickets he had sold that day.

  The soldier had barely received copies of their itinerary before he was off running through the concourse, bellowing into his radio. Giuseppe Moretti slumped back on his stool with a sigh of relief. It had been an extraordinary day.