Julian, Poplin, Konev, Machungo, and de Hotteterre quickly confirmed each other’s lodgings. Machungo and de Hotteterre were in the same room, while the rest were in separate ones. Was this by chance or design? Julian wondered. Before he could trace the implications of that thought further, whispers of elation and excitement swept through the fluorescently lit hallway as believers fell to their knees along the wall. The reason for their obeisance became clear when Julian noticed the solemn approach of a black-clad procession.
“It’s His Grace the Grand Bishop,” came waves of whispers.
Julian followed their example and knelt in kind, warily observing the figure at the center of the procession.
He did more than wear black. It was the black clothing that gave him any sense of form at all. That was how little presence this old man had. So little, in fact, that Julian found himself wondering if he was looking at a hologram. His feet made almost no sound. His skin color was almost indistinguishable from the fluorescent lighting. His eyes seemed to be fixed on something way beyond this transient world. Julian wanted to know if there was anything inside his body. He had to know.
“To witness the countenance of His Grace the Grand Bishop,” whispered an old believer standing next to Poplin, tears of gratitude streaming down her face, “is a chance one might not get in a lifetime. What a fortuitous blessing.”
“If I could,” muttered a dejected Poplin to himself, “I’d rather go through life not having seen him at all.”
Poplin saw no evidence of wrinkles or even muscles in the Grand Bishop. He was a dry shell of a man who looked like he’d burn that much more quickly if one cremated him, mused the ace pilot.
The archbishop was around thirty years of age. His exceptional promotion was a result neither of his command of doctrine nor depth of faith, but rather his abilities as a natural-born man of the world. Had there been a bureaucratic society on Earth, he might have ruled from its summit. But because no such structure existed anymore, he’d entered the Church of Terra and secured his position as archbishop in the space of one or two years. He knew better than to tell anyone that the only thing he worshipped was his own resourcefulness.
“I understand our branch on the planet Odin has been annihilated?”
“Regrettably, it would seem so, Archbishop de Villiers.”
His superior lowered his head solemnly.
“Baron von Kümmel is dead, and it seems everyone in the sect martyred themselves.”
“Baron von Kümmel, you say? What a worthless man. What did he live for, and what did he die for?”
A gloomy cloud of disappointment crossed the archbishop’s face. His office was a low-ceilinged yet spacious room, filled nine centuries ago with the souls of those who had drowned—the very thought of which, if you asked him now (not that he’d tell you), was laughably absurd.
“Even if Baron von Kümmel is to blame for our failure, aren’t we taking things a little too fast?”
The old bishop’s voice was like that of an emperor criticizing his highest general’s tactical error. At least that was how the archbishop chose to interpret it as he glared at his much older subordinate with venom in his eyes.
“The Imperial Navy’s invasion is imminent. Such failures are therefore nothing to worry ourselves about. We can revisit the emperor’s assassination once we’re out of harm’s way.”
“Indeed. We cannot allow our holy land to fall into the evil hands of those heretics.”
“Don’t worry. His Grace the Grand Bishop already has taken measures.” The archbishop’s lips made a half-moon smile. “Knowing we were able to get that close to an emperor, there’s no reason to think we can’t get close to an admiral.”
II
On July 24, the 5,440 vessels of Senior Admiral August Samuel Wahlen’s punitive expedition to Earth entered orbit on the outer edge of the solar system. After receiving his orders, Wahlen had quickly assembled a regiment of cruisers, managing the difficult task of putting them into formation along the way.
August Samuel Wahlen had been instrumental in helping to establish the Lohengramm Dynasty. And while he had a few defeats on his military record, his victories were overwhelmingly many. His ingenious determination as a tactician and his manly fortitude instilled confidence in his soldiers.
If one defeat brought him shame, it was his loss in March of that year, when, near the Free Planets Alliance’s Tasili star zone, he had fallen prey to Yang Wen-li’s tricks and had been unilaterally crushed. One would think his every vein would have burned with regret at the time, but in terms of recognizing his opponent’s worth, Wahlen was even more flexible than his comrade Lennenkamp. And while he admired Yang’s ingenuity with a bitter smile, he bore no grudge against him. He was simply determined to never let it happen again.
He was greatly pleased by Reinhard’s order to capture the Church of Terra’s stronghold. He’d never expected to have the chance to redeem himself so soon. He had to satisfy Reinhard’s favor at all costs, especially since the emperor had chosen him over Wittenfeld to do it.
If the Church of Terra was indeed nothing but a cult, he would have no trouble banishing them to some frontier planet like the Galactic Federation of States had done eight centuries ago. But there was no way he was going to take their political influence, organizational abilities, and assets for granted, especially considering they’d almost gotten away with regicide. There was no sound reason to pardon any terrorist group just because they acted in the name of religion.
Wahlen was thirty-two years of age, the same as Yang Wen-li and Oskar von Reuentahl. He was a tall and burly man with hair of bleached copper wire. Five years ago, he’d gotten married. A year later, their son had been born, but his wife had died due to complications in the delivery. Their son was being brought up by Wahlen’s parents. They’d spoken to him of remarrying as many times as he had fingers and toes, but he had no interest.
The frontier planet which humanity had abandoned nine hundred years ago was reflected on the flagship’s main screen. His chief of staff Vice Admiral Leibl, chief intelligence staff officer Commodore Kleiber, and others had assembled around their commander to plan their method of attack in front of the 3-D display.
“I see. Under the Himalayas, is it?”
“Their underground headquarters is protected by a hundred trillion tons of dirt and bedrock. We could attack it with ELF missiles and be done with it in one or two sweeps.”
“You mean blow up the whole mountain? Where’s the art in that? Besides, the emperor was explicit about not sacrificing any innocent civilians.”
“All right, then. Shall we send in our armed grenadiers? It wouldn’t take very long.”
Wahlen looked to his chief of staff.
“How many exits and entrances does their underground base have? Unless we determine that, they’ll just escape the moment we come barging in. Destroying their base and killing any fanatics we can find, only to let their ringleaders get away, would undermine the emperor’s good graces.”
“Then what do you—”
“Relax,” said Wahlen, reining in his chief of staff’s impatience. “The Earth isn’t going anywhere, and neither are they. We have until we reach Earth’s orbit to come up with a solid plan. I’ve got a prized 410-year-old white wine to present as a trophy.”
After releasing his staff officers, Wahlen leaned against a wall and folded his arms, savoring the opportunity to see the screen from anywhere but his commander’s seat. It was a habit he’d kept since his days as a recruit. He was too absorbed to notice that one of his noncommissioned officers was cautiously approaching him.
“Admiral!” cried out one of his staff officers.
Wahlen wrenched his tall body just in time to dodge a glint of light drawing a diagonal across his field of vision. He recognized it as a battle knife as he rammed against the wall behind him.
At once, Wahl
en lifted his left arm to protect his throat. The fabric of his military uniform ripped audibly, the blade sending a searing pain through his muscle tissue. He waited a moment for it to cool into a throbbing pain.
As splattered blood from his wound temporarily blinded the raging eyes of his would-be assassin, Wahlen pulled the trigger of the blaster in his right hand, sending rays of light into the man’s right shoulder where it met his arm.
The assassin threw his head back, his hand still holding the knife high, and let out a shriek of agony.
The staff officers, who until then had held fire for fear of hitting their commander, wasted no time in leaping upon the assassin, forcing him to the floor.
Wahlen’s face was pale from blood loss and pain, but he managed to get to his feet and bark his orders.
“Don’t kill him! Keep him alive. I want to know who he’s working for.”
But then a white light burst in a corner of his consciousness, and the expeditionary commander fell against the wall and slid to the floor.
The medic who rushed to his aid determined that the knife had been coated with an alkaloidal poison and that if they didn’t amputate Wahlen’s left arm, his life would be in danger.
The surgery left Wahlen minus one arm in exchange for his life. A lingering trace of the toxin left him feeling feverish, conversely making the hearts of his staff officers run cold.
Wahlen pulled through a serious injury and fever that might’ve brought anyone to death’s door, regaining total consciousness sixty hours later.
After drinking the nutrients given to him by the medic, Wahlen said not a single word about the left arm he’d lost but instead had the noncommissioned officer who’d attacked him brought into the sick bay. The assailant, propped up between two soldiers, had a bandage around his shoulder and appeared to be in worse shape than he was.
“We didn’t torture him. He just won’t eat anything.”
Wahlen nodded at his subordinate’s explanation and looked straight into the man’s eyes.
“Now then, you feel like telling me who sent you to kill me?”
In the eyes of the assassin, clouded by ashen fog, the crimson flames of bloodlust rose again.
“No one ordered me. Those who refuse to let the sanctity of Mother Earth alone must suffer by the transcendental will that governs the entire universe.”
Wahlen gave a fatigued smile.
“Spare me your theology. I just want to know the name of the one who ordered you to assassinate me. I’m guessing it’s someone affiliated with the Church of Terra. Is he aboard this ship?”
Tension had an eagle grip on everyone in the sick bay. The assassin let out a maddening scream and began to struggle. Wahlen shook his head once, raising his remaining hand and ordering the man back to his isolation cell. His chief of staff looked anxiously at his commander.
“Shall we interrogate him again, Your Excellency?”
“I doubt he’ll talk. That’s the way religious fanatics are. By the way, when can you get me a prosthetic arm?”
“In a day or two,” the medic said.
Wahlen nodded, looking down at where his left arm used to be, but soon turned away his emotionless gaze.
“Speaking of which,” he said abruptly, “isn’t there another officer with a prosthetic arm on this ship?”
To which his staff officers exchanged bewildered glances, but Commodore Kleiber’s superlative memory was triggered.
“That would be Commander Konrad Rinser, one of the staff officers aboard the flagship.”
“Yes, Konrad Rinser. I was introduced to him by Siegfried Kircheis during the Battle of Kifeuser. Right, call him in.”
Thus, Konrad Rinser, imperial commander, came to be under Senior Admiral Wahlen’s command, landing on Earth before the main force to scout out the Church of Terra’s headquarters and clear the way for companion forces to invade.
III
On Earth—or rather, under it—time passed idly for a spell. The date was July 14, ten days after infiltrating the Church of Terra’s underground base, and Julian found nothing of worth during his stint as a faux believer.
Surveillance cameras were installed everywhere, rendering meaningful exploration of the compound impossible, and any stairways or elevators leading to the lower levels were invariably guarded. Being separated from his fellow travelers meant Julian couldn’t freely associate with them. Thinking he had no choice but to gain the trust of his hosts, he’d engaged in a sort of involuntary servitude. In between worship, prayer, and sermons, together with other believers he cleaned the hall and sorted the provisions storehouse, all the while committing the layout of the underground base to memory. But even Julian couldn’t help but feel like a fool and could only imagine that Poplin and Boris Konev were in especial agony without a defined sense of purpose.
On the night of the twenty-sixth (not that either noon or night meant anything underground), Julian was finally able to sit across from Poplin in the buffet-style mess hall and speak to him quietly.
“So, any young beauties caught your eye yet?”
“No way. Just some antiques that might’ve been women half a century ago.”
Poplin sipped his lentil soup with a sour face. The mess hall had passed its peak time slot, so there weren’t many other people around. The two of them were afraid of what others might think if they talked for too long, but at least they could talk.
“More importantly, did you find any sort of reference room or database?”
“Nothing. Anything like that is more likely to be another level down. I’m sure I’ll find it soon.”
“Don’t get your hopes up.”
“I won’t.”
“I haven’t said anything about it until now, but even if you do find a reference room, there’s no guarantee it’ll have what you need. These guys might be nothing but a cult of megalomaniacal crazies.”
Poplin closed his mouth, looking past Julian’s shoulder in that way he did when talking about women. Julian turned around. The moment he did so, a piercing racket assailed his eardrums. A male believer stood with his arms overhead, while another was writhing under an upturned table. Elderly and female believers screamed and dispersed. The man’s eyes, which betrayed a long-lost mind, glimmered from underneath his black hood. He lifted the table with surprising strength, throwing it into the crowd of believers. Another crash, and more screams.
Someone must have notified the authorities, because five or six clergymen armed with stun guns jumped in through the door and surrounded him. Thin cords shot out from their guns and pierced the man’s body. A low-output, high-voltage current sent him flying into the air before he hit the floor with a short scream.
Poplin’s face, half-concealed by his hood, went completely pale, as if some ominous suspicion had been realized.
“Dammit,” groaned Poplin. “So that’s it. How did I not see it before?”
Poplin grabbed Julian by the wrist and led him out of the mess hall, hurrying his pace against the crowd running over to see what the commotion was all about. When Julian finally asked what was going on, Poplin shot him a serious look.
“We need to find a bathroom fast and throw up everything we just ate.”
“Are you saying we’ve been poisoned?”
The ace pilot took a moment to answer.
“Something like that. That man who went berserk in the mess hall just now? That was a classic reaction to a psychotropic drug called thyoxin.”
Julian’s voice caught in his throat. Amid the cymbals of shock crashing in his head, fine singing voices of reason told him the truth. The food they’d been eating for the past twelve days in the cult’s headquarters had been laced with narcotics, the same addictive synthetic drug that both the empire and the alliance had secretly collaborated on.
“It’s the reason why the Church of Terra’s followers are
so damned docile, like slaves,” said Poplin, shifting the focus to the other believers, if only to ignore his growing uneasiness. “A long time ago, revolutionaries used to call religion the opiate of the masses, but this is a whole other level.”
When they entered the bathroom, they jammed their fingers down their throats and vomited up their meals. While rinsing out their mouths, Julian was warned not to drink the water, as there was a possibility that the entire water supply was laced with the drug.
“Don’t eat anything else today or tomorrow, although if we happen to go into withdrawal, we might not have much of an appetite anyway.”
“But the others…”
“I know. We need to let them know as soon as possible.”
The two of them were on the same page. They could only hope they weren’t being monitored right now. They had to find a way, however risky, to avoid suspicion. But if they continued eating the food and became addicted to the drug, they would become nothing more than livestock for the Church of Terra. They were hung on the horns of a dilemma.
“At any rate, Commander, you sure do know a lot.”
Poplin cocked a half smile in response to Julian’s praise.
“Women aren’t the only thing I pursue. I’m a regular walking museum.”
That night somehow passed without incident. Perhaps it was because these lodgings were intended for soldiers that this room of exposed bedrock was large enough to fit fifty three-tiered beds. Curtains of tattered cloth were their only barriers for privacy. At some point, Julian managed to fall asleep, caught between real hunger and imagined withdrawal.
From noon onward the next day, Julian sensed that his physical condition and mood were beginning to deteriorate. He was racked with chills, broke out in hot flashes, and was becoming generally uncomfortable. He was lax in his chores as well, made even more challenging for the lack of nourishment.
Full-on withdrawal set in that same night.
He knew it was coming when something snapped inside him, and his body began to tremble violently. Chills ran up his spine, his heartbeat spiked, and he began coughing violently in a way he hadn’t since he was a baby.
Legend of the Galactic Heroes, Volume 6 Page 18
