Imperial Night

by Eric Thomson

  “Is there an officer in the observation room?” He asked in a low voice.

  She nodded. “Well done. You must describe—”

  The hallway door opened, and a tall, slender woman wearing an orange one-piece garment and sandals entered. She had a narrow, deeply tanned face beneath short, off-white hair, a patrician nose framed by watchful brown eyes and thin, almost bloodless lips. Hyson didn’t appear particularly dangerous. One could still detect a woman of privilege and grace beneath the coarsening of years on Changu. But Roget couldn’t recognize a soul, malevolent or otherwise, peering back at him through those eyes, though he could almost see the aura of corruption enveloping her, and it squeezed his mind like a vise. A familiar migraine accompanied by nausea surged as he fought for self-control.

  “Sister.” Hyson settled into one of the two chairs facing them and crossed her legs. Her pleasant, alto voice sounded slightly hoarse. “And who is your friend?”

  “Stearn. He’s training under my guidance.”

  “Is he now? How delightful to see a male face from the outside. You’re cute enough for my tastes, Sister, but I could use a bit of variety.” She gave Roget a feral smile, then blew him a kiss. “I wouldn’t mind training under you, handsome.”

  When Roget didn’t react, let alone reply, a disappointed moue twisted her lips.

  “Carved from stone, eh? Well, a hard man is good to find. How about it, Amelia? A little three-way play? I don’t mind the COs watching from next door.”

  Amelia, who’d kept an equally expressionless face, waited for a few heartbeats after Hyson fell silent, then said, “Shall we pick up where we last left off, Seled?”

  — 20 —

  When they walked away from the Supermax compound shortly before midday, Roget breathed a sigh of relief as the iron bands of the worst migraine he’d ever experienced evaporated in the warm sun.

  “Any longer in there, and I would be on the verge of blowing my brains out. How can these people live inside their minds?”

  “They do not hear their minds. Otherwise, madness would overcome them.”

  “Do some reach that point, though?”

  “Hear themselves? Yes, it happens. Eventually, the darkness within eats away at their soul. Their lives end prematurely. Most commit suicide in rather spectacular ways.” After a few more steps, she asked, “How did you notice the correctional officers?”

  Roget thought about her question for several seconds, then said in a tentative voice, “When I sensed Seled’s approach, I also picked up something hard and brittle. It wasn’t so much the opposite of her mind as it was a wall built to block it out.”

  “Nicely done.” Amelia gave him a smile of approval. “It takes a special person to become a correctional officer and walk among evil daily. Most of those who succeed do so because they instinctively close in on themselves and block out everything. That is the hard, brittle thing. The ones who can’t close in on themselves or find their shell cracking after years here move on to guard habitual criminals or leave the service altogether. They are, in a way, continual victims of the people imprisoned here, though neither inmates nor correctional officers know about it.”

  Roget made a face. “And another career choice struck from my list.”

  “Once you learn to block out others, you won’t see or hear evil unless you look for it.”

  “If I learn to speak no evil on top of that, can I audition for the role of the three wise monkeys?”

  “You know about them? I’m impressed.”

  He shrugged.

  “It’s Marta’s doing. She introduced me to Mizaru, Kikazaru, and Iwazaru when we discussed the links between mind, speech, and action from the perspective of those with a well-developed sixth sense.”

  They walked on in silence for a few minutes before Roget glanced at Amelia again.

  “Did you ever discover people with antisocial personality disorder in your midst?”

  “You mean among consecrated sisters or friars? Yes. Highly functioning psychopaths with a strong sixth sense, the sort who don’t suffer from criminal impulses. We don’t necessarily detect all of them, but those we identify invariably tell us they joined the Order because they wanted an environment that would make sure their lack of empathy didn’t take them down a grim path.”

  “They recognize their condition. That’s fascinating.”

  “We find those with a strong sixth sense have enough self-awareness to know they can’t differentiate between good and evil in the same way as normal humans. In response, they adapt by taking cues from religious or moral teachings and the people around them. They don’t care about others but made a conscious decision that they would do no harm. By living under the Order’s Rule and within a community where everyone engages in the same behaviors helps them achieve that goal. They integrate by mimicking those around them even though they don’t believe in the Almighty or the Void.”

  “The human mind is an incredible thing.”

  She nodded.

  “I agree, which is why I’m training to become more than just a normal counselor. You could do so too if you join the Order.”

  “One more question.” Roget halted as he chose his words. They were halfway between the priory and the maximum security compound, where administrative buildings and correctional officer lodgings lined the crushed coral streets. “Erasmus, Marnix, and Shakib were once like Seled Hyson. They no longer are since I don’t pick anything up when I’m around them. Not even the mental auras of normal people. Did this cure turn them from violent sociopaths into highly functioning psychopaths?”

  Amelia studied him for a few heartbeats.

  “I wasn’t involved in that project and never quite looked at it that way. But you could be right. Perhaps I will ask Sister Mirjam in private one day.”

  **

  “What did you think of Supermax?” Erasmus asked when Roget joined the postulants for lunch in the priory’s small dining hall.

  The three were already halfway through their meals — soup and raw vegetables from the priory’s greenhouses.

  Roget put down his tray and sat across from him.

  “Terrifying is the first word that comes to mind. That’s a seriously bleak place. Gave me a massive headache, though it’s fading.”

  Marnix snorted.

  “And don’t we know it? Everyone there belongs in the Seventh Circle of Hell.” When Roget cocked an amused eyebrow at him, he frowned. “What? Did you think we weren’t getting the full classical education given to every postulant? Just because we were exiled for life and don’t have a normal friar’s talent? We can debate metaphysics and philosophy with you until the end of the universe, my friend.”

  Roget raised his hands in surrender.

  “Sorry, Marnix. I didn’t mean to offend you. After what I experienced this morning, I wasn’t expecting Dante’s Inferno, but I agree with you about the Seventh Circle of Hell. So how did the sisters cure you guys?”

  “They peered deep into the Void where a normal person keeps his soul,” Erasmus replied, “and cauterized our psychological and spiritual wounds. I can’t describe it otherwise. After each session, a small part of the evil living within me was gone, along with the associated memories, until no trace of darkness remained. Sure, I lost a fair bit of myself in the process and often think I’m a hollow man, but for the first time since I can remember, I’m at peace.”

  “Ditto.” Marnix and Shakib nodded in agreement.

  Roget popped a baby carrot into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. After swallowing, he asked, “Why didn’t the sisters cure more of the Supermax prisoners? The difference between the ones I saw this morning and you three is incredible.”

  “Only the sisters can answer that question, though I doubt they would, especially with an outsider. All I know is that the sisters vetted us thoroughly over several weeks before they offered us places in the experimental program. During the treatment, they kept us segregated from the rest of Supermax.” Erasmus gave Roget a hu
morless smile. “Apply to become a friar, and once you take your vows, join their counselor training program. Maybe they’ll let you in on the secret.”

  “I’m not interested in working with deranged people. My tolerance for humans, in general, took another nosedive this morning. What’ll you guys do when you take vows?”

  “Anything the Order needs. Since we don’t have a shred of talent, I suspect it’ll be manual labor in and around the priory.”

  “Those who sweep floors and rake leaves also serve the Almighty’s purpose,” Marnix intoned with mock seriousness. “But that still beats spending the rest of our lives in Supermax surrounded by the most violent humans in the republic. You’re going back with Amelia tomorrow?”

  Roget nodded.

  “Yup. Until I can shut out those violent human minds.”

  “Good luck staying sane.”

  “Some of it is interesting.” Roget took a sip of his iced tea. “I didn’t believe until this morning that evil was an actual thing. The discovery is making me question a lot of my assumptions about life and the universe.”

  “Aye.” Erasmus raised a water glass, as if in salute. “Take it from a former practitioner of evil. It’s too bloody real.”

  “Tell me something.” Roget gave the man a speculative look. “You said the sisters cauterized your psychological and spiritual wounds bit by bit.”

  “Sure. They burned out that which made us sociopaths.”

  “But you still can’t experience empathy for others.”

  Erasmus shook his head.

  “No. Not a shred. Yet I’m not under a compulsion to harm others or fulfill evil ambitions. What I want, what we want, is to live a life of service and repay the Order that gave us peace.”

  “Can you remember your thoughts before the cure?”

  “No. We cannot even remember our crimes.”

  “Do you remember your lives before the cure?”

  The three men glanced at each other with an air of puzzlement on their faces.

  “We remember a few things, but they’re rather vague. Does it matter? This is now our destiny, a second chance by the grace of the Almighty and the Brethren.”

  “How do you know the Order gave you peace if you don’t remember your turmoil?”

  Erasmus didn’t immediately reply as he cast about for an answer.

  “I can sometimes glimpse a faint echo of my former madness. It reminds me of whence I came.”

  For reasons he couldn’t explain, Roget knew with certainty Erasmus was telling the truth, though the man’s mind was a complete blank compared to Seled Hyson’s, as were those of the other two postulants.

  **

  “How did he do?” Mirjam gestured at the chairs in front of her desk when Amelia entered the prioress’ office.

  “About as we expected. He’s recovering from what must be the worst migraine of his life and will probably spend the rest of the day sleeping. After witnessing Stearn’s distress, I think the shock treatment Marta envisioned might simply be too much for such a well-developed talent. If only he would join the Order so we could use the teachings instead.”

  “Stearn is far stronger than you give him credit. This morning was a shock because he could not conceive of sensing such violent chaos in others until encountering it for the first time.”

  “He told me it changed his views on the existence of evil as an actual phenomenon.”

  “As opposed to a social construct invented by the religious so they could condemn behavior they don’t like?” An air of amusement lit up Mirjam’s eyes. “Will he be a soul theorist or a more prosaic believer in twisted psyches?”

  “We didn’t discuss the matter in any significant detail once he made the discovery.”

  “It’ll be easier for him tomorrow now that he knows what to expect. We will continue the process as Marta directed.”

  Amelia, hearing her superior and not her sister in the Order speak, lowered her gaze for a few seconds. “Yes, Prioress.”

  “Now tell me about your progress with the prisoners. I’d like another two or three for the new treatment, including a woman if possible, and neither Mette nor Teresa can come up with likely candidates,” Mirjam said, naming two of the priory’s counselors. Both had worked on developing and implementing the treatment that cured Erasmus and his fellow prisoners.

  A grimace briefly twisted Amelia’s face.

  “Seled Hyson is the least damaged of the women I’m counseling. But she doesn’t strike me as the sort who would relinquish her memories of the past for a chance at becoming the priory’s indentured servant, which is all she would be since I’ve not sensed any sign of the talent. Seled’s goal is living in an exile colony on one of the other islands.”

  “Are you sure she’s bereft of the talent? It could be latent, hidden beneath the chaos that is her mind, and be driving Seled’s antisocial personality disorder.” Mirjam sat back, a thoughtful expression on her face. “And wouldn’t that be an interesting experiment? I’d like to examine this Seled myself.”

  — 21 —

  “Sister Gwenneth?” Landry’s tone was soft and respectful as usual, but she knew him well, and he sounded mildly irked to her ears, which could only mean Friar Loxias and his delegation were in the outer office. Gwenneth let her eyes roam over the abbey’s quadrangle one last time, consciously avoiding the Orb that seemed to mock her.

  The stone buildings glistened with rain under a dishearteningly gray sky that matched her mood, and though the building was climate-controlled, she could almost feel the suffocating humidity as if it were a thick blanket. Southern Tristan’s monsoon season was mercifully short, but everything seemed waterlogged. Northern Isolde faced much worse, with storms barreling at it from the World Ocean every week.

  “Friars Loxias and Sandor along with Sisters Emilie and Keleos for the abbess.”

  Gwenneth suppressed a sigh and turned away from the rain-streaked window to take her place behind the large but plain wooden desk.

  “Please usher them in.”

  Landry had lined up four unpadded chairs in front of the desk at her orders. Gwenneth did not want her visitors made comfortable in a less formal setting around the low tea table. She hoped it would send an unmistakable message but feared it might be an empty gesture instead. Loxias shrugged off insults, overt and implied, with the disdain of a self-righteous man convinced his truth triumphed over all others.

  She remained seated but gestured at the chairs as the delegation entered the office.

  “Brethren. Please sit.”

  The four wore respectful expressions but couldn’t hide the triumphant gleam in their eyes as they bowed their heads in greeting. Gwenneth studied them in silence one-by-one as they sat. Keleos joining Loxias didn’t surprise her. A Void Ship rescued both from the destruction of the Hatshepsut Abbey during the empire’s collapse. They had entered the Order at almost the same time and knew each other well.

  Neither was Gwenneth taken aback at seeing Sandor, a survivor from the Mykonos Abbey. She’d long ago marked him as one of the most conservative, if not reactionary friars. Emilie’s presence in the delegation, however, was unexpected. Lyonesse born and bred, she knew no other abbey than this one and no abbess other than Gwenneth. She hardly fit in with the Lindisfarne Brethren, who were mainly older and from somewhere other than Lyonesse.

  “What is your purpose?” Gwenneth asked, turning her attention on Loxias.

  “We must move forward and declare this the Order’s motherhouse, Abbess.”

  “Surely, you understand my position, Loxias. Absent evidence Lindisfarne was destroyed, I cannot in good conscience do so.”

  “Our community includes members rescued from hundreds of abbeys and priories destroyed during Dendera’s madness, and our Void Ships found no evidence of survivors after countless expeditions into what was once the human empire. We are the last. I do not doubt it.”

  “That’s not evidence Lindisfarne no longer exists.” Gwenneth wanted Loxias to speak ope
nly about the Lindisfarne Brethren’s true motivations. She already knew what they were, of course, but no one dared voice the truth. “Tell me, why are you and your followers so keen on a symbolic gesture that changes nothing about our lives and our duties?”

  “Do the Order’s teachings not say we should face reality, especially in trying times? Yes, finally admitting we are the last Brethren left in the galaxy might be traumatic for some, but it can also be liberating. As motherhouse of the Order, we can chart a new course and better prepare ourselves for the day when the republic finally ventures out and reunites our species under its banner.”

  “Fair enough. But I don’t think that’s your primary motivation.”

  Loxias adopted a mildly affronted air. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re getting at, Abbess.”

  “We can do everything you just mentioned, even without usurping Lindisfarne’s primacy. Tell me, why do I think this push for me to declare us the motherhouse is more because of the way the Order governed Lindisfarne?”

  Loxias’ affronted air took on a tinge of self-righteousness.

  “Why shouldn’t we play a bigger part in the republic’s affairs? Our destiny is irrevocably entwined with it, we serve the community in ways rarely seen throughout the Order’s history, and yet we dare not raise our voice. Many of the Brethren feel this just isn’t right, including many sisters born here, such as Emilie.” He glanced at the younger woman. “This isn’t just about a bunch of sisters and friars who remember the good old days and wish to recreate them.”

  “The good old days?” Gwenneth cocked a mocking eyebrow. “You mean when the Order ran an entire star system like a medieval fief, denying the laypeople a voice? Or when so many of us were rightly or wrongly accused of meddling in secular politics and massacred? What good old days do you mean?”