Rise of Endymion

by Dan Simmons

  Farrell nodded. They had taken a dropshaft deep into the stone bowels of Castel Sant’Angelo, and now they moved past armed guards and through lethal forcefields down a dark corridor. At an unmarked door, two red-garbed commandos stood at attention, energy rifles raised.

  “Leave us,” said the Grand Inquisitor and palmed the door’s ideyplate. The steel panel slid up and out of sight.

  The corridor had been stone and shadows. Inside the room, everything was bright light, instruments, and sterile surfaces. Technicians looked up as the Grand Inquisitor and Farrell entered. One wall of the room was taken up by square doors, looking like nothing so much as the multitiered human file drawers of an ancient morgue. One of those doors was open and a naked man lay on a gurney that had been pulled from the cold storage drawer there.

  The Grand Inquisitor and Farrell stopped on either side of the gurney.

  “He is reviving well,” said the technician who stood at the console. “We’re holding him just beneath the surface. We can bring him up in seconds.”

  Father Farrell said, “How long was his last cold sleep?”

  “Sixteen local months,” said the technician. “Thirteen and a half standard.”

  “Bring him up,” said the Grand Inquisitor.

  The man’s eyelids began to flutter within seconds. He was a small man, muscular but compact, and there were no marks or bruises on his body. His wrists and ankles were bound by stick-tite. A cortical shunt had been implanted just behind his left ear and an almost invisible bundle of microfibers ran from it to the console.

  The man on the gumey moaned.

  “Corporal Bassin Kee,” said the Grand Inquisitor. “Can you hear me?”

  Corporal Kee made an unintelligible sound.

  The Grand Inquisitor nodded as if satisfied. “Corporal Kee,” he said pleasantly, conversationally, “shall we pick up where we left off?”

  “How long …” mumbled Kee between dry, stiff lips. “How long have I been …”

  Father Farrell had moved to the technician’s console. Now he nodded to the Grand Inquisitor.

  Ignoring the corporal’s question, John Domenico Cardinal Mustafa said softly, “Why did you and Father Captain de Soya let the girl go?”

  Corporal Kee had opened his eyes, blinking as if the light pained him, but now he closed them again. He did not speak.

  The Grand Inquisitor nodded to his aide. Father Farrell’s hand passed over icons on the console diskey, but did not yet activate any of them.

  “Once again,” said the Grand Inquisitor. “Why did you and de Soya allow the girl and her criminal allies to escape on God’s Grove? Who were you working for? What was your motivation?”

  Corporal Kee lay on his back, his fists clenched and his eyes shut fast. He did not answer.

  The Grand Inquisitor tilted his head ever so slightly to the left and Father Farrell waved two fingers over one of the console icons. The icons were as abstract as hieroglyphics to the untutored eye, but Farrell knew them well. The one he had chosen would have translated as crushed testicles.

  On the gurney, Corporal Kee gasped and opened his mouth to scream, but the neural inhibitors blocked that reaction. The short man’s jaws opened as wide as they could and Father Farrell could hear the muscles and tendons stretching.

  The Grand Inquisitor nodded and Farrell removed his fingers from the activation zone above the icon. Corporal Kee’s entire body convulsed on the gurney, his stomach muscles rippling in tension.

  “It is only virtual pain, Corporal Kee,” whispered the Grand Inquisitor. “A neural illusion. Your body is not marked.”

  On the slab, Kee was straining to raise his head to look down at his body, but the sticktite band held his head in place.

  “Or perhaps not,” continued the Cardinal. “Perhaps this time we have resorted to older, less refined methods.” He took a step closer to the gurney so that the man could see his face. “Again … why did you and Father Captain de Soya let the girl go on God’s Grove? Why did you attack your crewmate, Rhadamanth Nemes?”

  Corporal Kee’s mouth worked until his back teeth became visible. “F … f … fuck you,” he managed, his jaws tight against the shaking that was wracking him.

  “Of course,” said the Grand Inquisitor and nodded to Father Farrell.

  This time, the icon Farrell activated could be translated as hot wire behind the right eye.

  Corporal Kee opened his mouth in a silent scream.

  “Again,” said the Grand Inquisitor softly. “Tell us.”

  “Excuse me, Your Eminence,” said Father Farrell, glancing at his comlog, “but the Conclave Mass begins in forty-five minutes.”

  The Grand Inquisitor waved his fingers. “We have time, Martin. We have time.” He touched Corporal Kee’s upper arm. “Tell us these few facts, Corporal, and you will be bathed, dressed, and released. You have sinned against your Church and your Lord by this betrayal, but the essence of the Church is forgiveness. Explain your betrayal, and all will be forgiven.”

  Amazingly, muscles still rippling with shock, Corporal Kee laughed. “Fuck you,” he said. “You’ve already made me tell you everything I know under Truthtell. You know why we killed that bitch-thing and let the child go. And you’ll never let me go. Fuck you.”

  The Grand Inquisitor shrugged and stepped back. Glancing at his own gold comlog, he said softly, “We have time. Much time.” He nodded to Father Farrell.

  The icon that looked like a double parentheses on the virtual pain console stood for broad and heated blade down esophagus. With a graceful motion of his fingers, Father Farrell activated it.

  FATHER CAPTAIN FEDERICO DE SOYA WAS RETURNED to life on Pacem and had spent two weeks as a de facto prisoner in the Vatican Rectory of the Legionaries of Christ. The rectory was comfortable and tranquil. The plump little resurrection chaplain who attended to his needs—Father Baggio—was as kindly and solicitous as ever. De Soya hated the place and the priest.

  No one told Father Captain de Soya that he could not leave the Legionaries rectory, but he was made to understand that he should stay there until called. After a week of gaining strength and orientation after his resurrection, he was called to Pax Fleet headquarters, where he met with Admiral Wu and her boss, Admiral Marusyn.

  Father Captain de Soya did little during the meeting except salute, stand at ease, and listen. Admiral Marusyn explained that a review of the Father Captain de Soya’s court-martial of four years earlier had shown several irregularities and inconsistencies in the prosecution’s case. Further review of the situation had warranted a reversal of the court-martial board’s decision: Father Captain de Soya was to be reinstated immediately at his former rank of captain in Pax Fleet. Arrangements were being made to find him a ship for combat duty.

  “Your old torchship the Balthasar is in drydock for a year,” said Admiral Marusyn. “A complete refitting—being brought up to archangel-escort standards. Your replacement, Mother Captain Stone, did an excellent job as skipper.”

  “Yes, sir,” said de Soya. “Stone was an excellent exec. I’m sure she’s been a good boss.”

  Admiral Marusyn nodded absently as he thumbed through vellum sheets in his notebook. “Yes, yes,” he said. “So good, in fact, that we’ve recommended her as skipper for one of the new planet-class archangels. We have an archangel in mind for you as well, Father Captain.”

  De Soya blinked and tried not to react. “The Raphael, sir?”

  The Admiral looked up, his tanned and creased face set in a slight smile. “Yes, the Raphael, but not the one you skippered before. We’ve retired that prototype to courier duty and renamed her. The new archangel Raphael is … well, you’ve heard about the planet-class archangels, Father Captain?”

  “No, sir. Not really.” He had heard rumors on his desert world when boxite miners had talked loudly in the one cantina in town.

  “Four standard years,” muttered the Admiral, shaking his head. His white hair was combed back behind his ears. “Bring Federico up t
o speed here, Admiral.”

  Marget Wu nodded and touched the diskey on a standard tactical console set into Admiral Marusyn’s wall. A holo of a starship came into existence between her and de Soya. The father-captain could see at once that this ship was larger, sleeker, more refined, and deadlier than his old Raphael.

  “His Holiness has asked each industrial world in the Pax to build—or at least to bankroll—one of these planet-class archangel battlecruisers, Father Captain,” said Admiral Wu in her briefing voice, “in the past four years, twenty-one of them have been completed and have entered active service. Another sixty are Bearing completion.” The holo began to rotate and enlarge until suddenly the main deck was shown in cutaway. It was as if a laser lance had sliced the ship in half.

  “As you see,” continued Wu, “the living areas, command decks, and C-three tactical centers are much roomier than on the earlier Raphael … roomier even than your old torchship. The drives—both the classified C-plus instantaneous Gideon drive and the in-system fusion plant—have been reduced in size by one-third while gaining in efficiency and ease of maintenance. The new Raphael carries three atmospheric dropships and a high-speed scout. There are automated resurrection crèches aboard to serve a crew of twenty-eight and up to twenty-two Marines or passengers.”

  “Defenses?” asked Father Captain de Soya, still standing at-ease, his hands clasped behind him.

  “Class-ten containment fields,” said Wu crisply. “The newest stealth technology. Omega-class ECM and jamming ability. As well as the usual assortment of close-in hyperkinetic and energy defenses.”

  “Attack capabilities?” said de Soya. He could tell from the apertures and arrays visible on the holo, but he wanted to hear it.

  Admiral Marusyn answered with a tone of pride, as if showing off a new grandchild. “The whole nine meters,” he said. “CPBs, of course, but feeding off the C-plus drive core rather than the fusion drive. Slag anything within half an AU. New Hawking hyperkinetic missiles—miniaturized—about half the mass and size of the ones you carried on Balthasar. Plasma needles with almost twice the yield of the warheads of five years ago. Deathbeams …”

  Father Captain de Soya tried not to react. Deathbeams had been prohibited in Pax Fleet.

  Marusyn saw something in the other man’s face. “Things have changed, Federico. This fight is to the finish. The Ousters are breeding like fruit flies out there in the dark, and unless we stop them, they’ll be slagging Pacem in a year or two.”

  Father Captain de Soya nodded. “Do you mind if I ask which world paid for the building of this new Raphael, sir?”

  Marusyn smiled and gestured toward the holo. The hull of the ship seemed to hurtle toward de Soya as the magnification increased. The view cut through the hull and closed on the tactical bridge, moving to the edge of the tactical center holopit until the father-captain could make out a small bronze plaque with the name—H.H.S. RAPHAEL—and beneath that, in smaller script: BUILT AND COMMISSIONED BY THE PEOPLE OF HEAVEN’S GATE FOR THE DEFENSE OF ALL HUMANITY.

  “Why are you smiling, Father Captain?” asked Admiral Marusyn.

  “Well, sir, it’s just … well, I’ve been to the world of Heaven’s Gate, sir. It was, of course, more than four standard years ago, but the planet was empty except for a dozen or so prospectors and a Pax garrison in orbit. There’s been no real population there since the Ouster invasion three hundred years ago, sir. I just couldn’t imagine that world financing one of these ships. It seems to me that it would take a planetary GNP of a society like Renaissance Vector’s to pay for a single archangel.”

  Marusyri’s smile had not faltered. “Precisely, Father Captain. Heaven’s Gate is a hellhole—poison atmosphere, acid rain, endless mud, and sulfur flats—it’s never recovered from the Ouster attack. But His Holiness thought that the Pax’s stewardship of that world might be better transferred to private enterprise. The planet still holds a fortune in heavy metals and chemicals. So we have sold it.”

  This time de Soya blinked. “Sold it, sir? An entire world?”

  While Marusyn openly grinned, Admiral Wu said, “To the Opus Dei, Father Captain.”

  De Soya did not speak, but neither did he show comprehension.

  “ ‘The Work of God’ used to be a minor religious organization,” said Wu. “It’s … ah, I believe … about twelve hundred years old. Founded in 1920 A.D. In the past few years, it has become not only a great ally of the Holy See, but a worthy competitor of the Pax Mercantilus.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Father Captain de Soya. He could imagine the Mercantilus buying up entire worlds, but he could not imagine the trading group allowing a rival to gain such power in the few years he had been out of Pax news. It did not matter. He turned to Admiral Marusyn. “One last question, sir.”

  The Admiral glanced at his comlog chronometer and nodded curtly.

  “I have been out of Fleet service for four years,” de Soya said softly. “I have not worn a uniform or received a tech update in all that time. The world where I served as a priest was so far out of the mainstream that I might as well have been in cryogenic fugue the whole time. How could I possibly take command of a new-generation archangel-class starship, sir?”

  Marusyn frowned. “We’ll bring you up to speed, Father Captain. Pax Fleet knows what it’s doing. Are you saying no to this commission?”

  Father Captain de Soya hesitated a visible second. “No, sir,” he said. “I appreciate the confidence in me that you and Pax Fleet are showing. I’ll do my best, Admiral.” De Soya had been trained to discipline twice—once as a priest and Jesuit, again as an officer in His Holiness’s fleet.

  Marusyn’s stone face softened. “Of course you will, Federico. We’re pleased to have you back. We’d like you to stay at the Legionaries rectory here on Pacem until we’re ready to send you to your ship, if that would be all right.”

  Dammit, thought de Soya. Still a prisoner with those damned Legionaries. He said, “Of course, sir. It’s a pleasant place.”

  Marusyn glanced at his comlog again. The interview was obviously at an end. “Any requests before the assignment becomes official, Father Captain?”

  De Soya hesitated again. He knew that making a request would be bad form. He spoke anyway. “Yes, sir … one. There were three men who served with me on the old Raphael. Swiss Guard commandos whom I brought from Hyperion … Lancer Rettig, well, he died, sir … but Sergeant Gregorius and Corporal Kee were with me until the end, and I wondered …”

  Marusyn nodded impatiently. “You want them on new Raphael with you. it sounds reasonable. I used to have a cook that I dragged from ship to ship … poor bugger was killed during the Second Coal Sack engagement. I don’t know about these men …” The Admiral looked at Marget Wu.

  “By great coincidence,” said Admiral Wu, “I ran across their files while reviewing your reinstatement papers, Father Captain. Sergeant Gregorius is currently serving in the Ring Territories. I am sure that a transfer can be arranged. Corporal Kee, I am afraid …”

  De Soya’s stomach muscles tightened. Kee had been with him around God’s Grove—Gregorius had been returned to the crèche after an unsuccessful resurrection—and the last he had seen of the lively little corporal had been after their return to Pacem space, when the MPs had taken them away to separate holding cells after their arrest. De Soya had shaken the corporal’s hand and assured him that they would see each other again.

  “I am afraid that Corporal Kee died two standard years ago,” finished Wu. “He was killed during an Ouster attack on the Sagittarius Salient. I understand that he received the Silver Star of St. Michael’s … posthumously, of course.”

  De Soya nodded tersely. “Thank you,” he said.

  Admiral Marusyn gave his paternal politician’s smile and extended his hand across the desk to de Soya. “Good luck, Federico. Give them hell from the Raphael.”

  THE HEADQUARTERS FOR THE PAX MERCANTILUS was not on Pacem proper, but was located—fittingly—on the L5Trojan point traili
ng behind the planet by some sixty orbital degrees. Between the Vatican world and the huge, hollow Torus Mercantilus—a carbon-carbon doughnut 270 meters thick, a full klick wide, and 26 kilometers in diameter, its interior webbed with spidery drydocks, com antennae, and loading bays—floated half of Pax Fleet’s total orbital-based firepower. Kenzo Isozaki once calculated that a coup attempt launched from Torus Mercantilus would last 12.06 nanoseconds before being vaporized.

  Isozaki’s office was in a clear bulb on a whiskered-carbon flower stem raised some four hundred meters above the outer rim of the torus. The bulb’s curved hullskin could be opaqued or left transparent according to the whim of the CEO inside it. Today it was transparent except for the section polarized to dim the glare of Pacem’s yellow sun. Space seemed black at the moment, but as the torus rotated, the bulb would come into the ring’s shadow and Isozaki could glance up to see stars instantly appear as if a heavy black curtain had been pulled aside to reveal thousands of brilliant, unflickering candles. Or the myriad campfires of my enemies, thought Isozaki as the darkness fell for the twentieth time on this working day.

  With the walls absolutely transparent, his oval office with its modest desk, chairs, and soft lamps seemed to become a carpeted platform standing alone in the immensity of space, individual stars blazing and the long swath of the Milky Way lighting the interior. But it was not this familiar spectacle that made the Mercantilus CEO look up: set amid the starfield, three fusion tails of incoming freighters could be picked out, looking like smudges on an astronomical holo. Isozaki was so adept at gauging distances and delta-v’s from fusion tails that he could tell at a glance how long it would be before these freighters docked … and even which ships they were. The P.M. Moldahar Effectuator had refueled by skimming a gas giant in the Epsilon Eridani System and was burning redder than usual. The H.H.M.S. Emma Constant’s skipper was in her usual rush to get her cargo of Pegasus 51 reaction metals to the torus and was decelerating inbound a good fifteen percent above Mercantilus recommendations. Finally, the smallest smudge could only be the H.H.M.S. Elemosineria Apostolica just passing spindown from its C-plus translation point from Renaissance System: Isozaki knew this from a glance, just as he knew the three hundred-some other optimal translation points visible in his part of the Pacem System sky.